Of Clipped Wings and Chipped Halos
by 11oyd
Summary: Try it, they say. You'll love it. Better than cocaine, better than heroin. Makes you feel like you're fucking flying. Nothing can beat it, God, you'll never want to come down. Try it. In which Special Agent Dean Winchester is partnered with an unusually trained teenager to stop the spread of Grace, the darkest drug on the market.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n:** So after five long months (five!) of writing, my nanowrimo fic is finally finished. It's by far the longest thing I've ever written and there were definitely times when I thought I'd never finish, but I finally have and it's finally ready to be released. Be free, fic. Make babies, drink fine wine, yada yada. So I'm going to try and update every MWF, and we'll see how that goes. I'm estimating about 30ish chapters right now. See disclaimers below.

**warnings:** drug use, dubcon, graphic torture, child abuse, whump, disturbing themes

**disclaimer:** There is a huge age difference between Dean and Castiel in this story and often it is not portrayed as unhealthy. I do not condone pedophilia or underage sex, unless, you know, consent or whatever. This is fiction. Treat it as such.

**second disclaimer:** I literally am not an FBI Agent. Sorry for inaccuracies on that front, I really did try. Also, there is graphic sex and violence. If you would like me to warn for either of these at the beginning of the chapter, let me know, otherwise I probably won't. I will, however, gladly accommodate anyone that wants me to.

Finally, I'd like to dedicate this to Sarah, because I never would have finished (or started) it without her. Thanks, love.

* * *

**Chapter One**

The boy is scrawny and underfed and his intense blue eyes look painfully blank in a way that states he's been rebuked one too many times for showing expression; Dean instantly dislikes him.

"He's a fucking runt," he protests, gesturing haplessly in the direction of the boy. God, he wants a cigarette. He wants a long shower and maybe a glass of brandy. He wants off this fucking case. "I can't work with him. Hell, aren't there _laws _against people working with him? I'm going to have to arrest myself for even looking at him."

"Relax, boy," Bobby says gruffly, despite his own tense shoulders. Knowing Bobby, he wants a glass of brandy even more than Dean does. "Boy's certified through the OBIT program. Apparently the deadliest one of his year."

"How old is he?" asks Dean, frowning through the two-way mirror at the straight-backed boy standing in the middle of the room, ignoring the chair and table at his disposal. He stands with military precision, looking pitifully thin, his stony expression undermined by the collarbone sharply poking out of the top of his shirt and the paleness of his skin. Doesn't look over fifteen; far too young, whatever he is, to be working on any sort of federal investigation.

Bobby shifts and shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his suit. He's always looked uncomfortable in formal wear, with his scruffy beard and permanent scowl, but today, in this moment, he looks even more so, his thick brows furrowed down.

"_Bobby_."

"Agent Singer," Bobby corrects, but he's stalling. A huff and then, "Seventeen."

"God, he's not even fucking legal," groans Dean, reaching up to scrub a hand over his face. Make that a double brandy and maybe a couple of beers afterwards as well. "You can't possibly expect -"

"I can and I do, Agent Winchester," growls Bobby, and Dean frowns deeply. After a moment, Bobby relents. "This isn't punishment, Dean."

"Looks like punishment. Feels like punishment. What's that saying? If it looks like a duck and swims like a duck, go get your shotgun?" There's a nonchalant lilt to his voice, but it's been a point of argument between them for the past four months since the trial and he's still not over it. He didn't deserve to get thrown out of the Organized Crime department, didn't deserve to get pushed onto a case that no one wanted with some kid still being potty-trained. There's a lot of things Dean doesn't deserve that still seem to happen. Try his entire fucking life.

"Don't be bitter, Agent, it doesn't become you."

A sideways sneer. "Become me? What are you, Madam Manners now? Come on, Bobby, I don't need to babysit some kid; I need to do my fucking job. I've learned my lesson. I won't -"

"Clearly you haven't learned anything if you can't follow orders."

"I can," says Dean heatedly. "Bobby - Agent Singer - I _can_."

"Then follow this, Winchester: Wait here, be fucking polite to the OBIT instructor when he comes in, go in there, introduce yourself to your new fucking partner, and get to work. A report had better be on my desk Monday morning and if I hear of any complaints from the kid, it's back to desk work for you."

A file smacks into Dean's chest and then a final glower and Bobby's gone, disappearing through the back door without another word. Dean's left standing before the mirror staring at his new - he swallows distastefully - partner, clutching the file to his chest like _he's _the inexperienced one. Thank God the kid can't see through the mirror because, truth be told, he still hasn't quite accepted that he's partnering with a half-starved trained assassin and he shifts closer, eyes narrowing. Dark hair, distant eyes - "Yeah, sure, Bobby, I'll get right on that," he mutters. "Let me just go get the fucking stroller first."

It's not Bobby's fault, he knows - Bobby's following the chain of command, just like everyone else. If anyone's to blame, it's Dean; if he hadn't fucked it up so badly on the last case, then he'd still be partners with - but no, he's not going to go there, he can't. Instead, he glances down quickly at the file, flipping it open to see the kid's face looking balefully up at him and the words _Certified Class XIV Castiel Novak _printed boldly underneath_._

"What the fuck kind of name is Castiel," he mumbles out loud and then jerks around at the sound of laughter behind him, instantly snapping the file shut as he stares at the intruder.

"Odd one, isn't it? His parents were a bit religious it seems," says the man, stepping forward and smiling easily. "Of course, not religious enough to prevent them from donating him to the OBIT ward, but their loss," his eyes slide past Dean to greedily latch onto Castiel, "our gain."

"I'm sorry, you're the OBIT guy?" asks Dean, upper lip curling slightly at the way he's staring at Dean's new partner, like he's some sort of food or new chew toy. All of a sudden, he's not as happy that the mirror is two-way.

"Oh, yes, sorry," says the man, sliding his hand out of his trouser pocket and offering it up to Dean who uneasily accepts it. "Dick Roman, director of - well, this and that. Do you like my creation?" A sharp grin spreads across his face, the grin of a politician and weasel alike, and they both turn to observe Castiel again who has not yet moved from his upright position. "Have you been in to meet him yet?"

"Not yet, no," says Dean shortly. "I was waiting to be briefed."

"Ah, yes." Dick Roman is tall and smiles easily, every hair combed perfectly into place; his posture is explicitly straight and his eyes are the grey of wet pavement. Already, Dean can tell that he's a bit of a dick, like his name implies. This seems to be proven as the silence only drags out further.

"For one, what's up with his age?" Dean shifts from one foot to the other, jaw tight. "He's seventeen. He's just a kid. I don't care how good he is at his job, isn't that a bit young for -"

"I can assure you that there's no danger in releasing him into the field this early," says Dick smoothly, not taking his eyes away from Castiel. "He is an expert in angels as well as their Grace, with fighting skills beyond what most FBI agents are capable are. I'm sure he could even put you to the test, Agent Winchester," and finally his eyes flicker back to Dean, his lips curving up slightly. "Look at the file, if you don't believe me. Examine the test results yourself."

"It's not his - capabilities I'm worried about," says Dean through gritted teeth, his hand tightening on the case file. "What's his say in this? I mean, isn't this breaking about a million child labor laws? Did he even have a fucking childhood?"

Dick says nothing but arches an eyebrow and then he steps forward, moving so that he is between the mirror and Dean, blocking his view of the frozen kid. "Agent Winchester," says Dick softly.

That's about the time that Dean realizes he just crossed the line and he might be tiptoeing into some deep shit. Again. "Sir."

"Need I remind you what got you placed on this assignment in the first place, Agent?" His smile is frigid now, ice cold. "If you have any issues with the way this institution is run, we could just as easily suspend you indefinitely from _any_ assignment while you place your complaints. I'm sure one of my assistants would love to hear from you. Is that what you'd like?"

Tersely: "No, sir."

"Let me stress to you that the OBIT is a government-funded institution, with highly successful results. If you have any _relevant_ questions about the case, feel free to address them. If not, I'd love to introduce the two of you." The smile is still there and it's starting to weird Dean out a bit.

For once in his life, Dean manages to remain silent before a douche bag authoritative figure, instead pressing his lips together and slanting his eyes down to the ground. God, he hates this job.

"No? Very well."

He's not thinking about Sammy, he's not thinking about Jo, he's not thinking the trial or the nightmares or the last time he got laid which was months ago. Instead, Dean simply scrapes a hand over the lower half of his face and moves after Roman, pushing the door open with one hand and then coming to a stop at the edge of the room, his eyes narrowing as he meets Castiel's.

Because here in the room - in front of the mirror - Castiel looks even smaller than before, shorter than Dean and spindly and he doesn't look like a fighter, no, not one bit. If anything, he looks like all the fight's been driven out of him, like he's following orders now only because he knows what will happen if he doesn't - and Dean grits his teeth harder, forcing himself to look away.

Except then his eyes fall on Dick and that's not much better.

"Castiel," Dick's saying, his tone dropping into one of condescending and derision. If Castiel's one of their so-called experts, then why is he spoken to in such a way? "This is Agent Winchester. The two of you are investigating the Grace ring spreading in the northeast, understood?" Another one of his razor sharp smiles, and Dean's now ready to ask Castiel if he'll tackle Dick to the ground and show off some of his sick moves. "To disobey his orders would lead directly to severe punishment of the -" his eyes flicker to Dean, "OBIT variety. But there won't be any disobedience here, will there?"

Slowly, Castiel shakes his head, the first movement Dean's seen him make this entire time.

"Delightful! Well, Agent, I know you have your own orders, is there anything else I can assist you in?"

The dangerous glint in those grey eyes tell Dean just what exactly Dick will help him with if he so dares to ask for a favor. "I'm good. Castiel?"

Castiel looks startled at being asked and Dean closes his eyes for a brief moment, hands clenching in his pocket. This is fucking terrible. "Um… No. No, sir, nothing."

When Dean reopens his eyes, Dick is checking his watch and already shifting in direction of the door. "Business meeting," he says in Dean's direction. "Gotta stay on top of things. You understand." His teeth flash unnaturally white and then he's gone.

Dean stares at Castiel who stares at his feet.

"So," says Dean and watches as Castiel's head immediately jerks up, moving to attention. He frowns. "You ever ridden in a 1967 Chevy Impala before?"

* * *

Castiel shrinks down in the leather seat, fiddling with the seat belt and feeling sorely lacking, particularly in his knowledge of popular music and classic model cars, neither of which he knew he was supposed to know. If he had - well, there wouldn't be a single album released after 1960 that he wouldn't know by this point. Unfortunately Agent Winchester hasn't asked him anything about what Castiel actually knows about - about Grace or angels or the exact amount of pressure needed to break a bone - but instead has fallen into a dark sort of silence after Castiel admitted he had no idea what a _Motorhead _is.

Should he speak? The leaders at OBIT were quite clear that under no circumstances were the subjects supposed to speak out of turn, but they had been driving for forty-seven minutes at this point and the car had been dead silent for thirty-six of those minutes. There had been no discussion of the case or where they were going and it is all perfectly normal for Castiel to be held in the dark - but he's anxious without direct orders, without knowing precisely what is expected of him. He opens his mouth to ask - closes it - opens it - falls silent and digs his nails into his hands.

_Control_, he reminds himself. _Obedience._

These are always the things he fights for, no matter the circumstances. These are always these things he is somehow punished for, eventually.

It could be worse, he knows. Agent Winchester doesn't look cruel - just intimidating, and most new faces look intimidating to Castiel. A lifetime of cruel sneers and hard indifference has led to little optimism for the seventeen-year-old. It always seems to take a little time for people's dark sides to come out - and then when it does, it never goes away again. Except in front of strangers. Director Roman had acted much more polite with Agent Winchester in the room than he had when it was just the two of them alone.

But so far Agent Winchester hasn't done anything too incriminating. He's handsome, strikingly so, with a commanding voice that rasps along Castiel's spine when he speaks. And while he hasn't spoken to Castiel in a while now, he'd spoken almost conversationally before, when asking about the music. It had been… odd. Strange, but not cruel. He hasn't slapped Castiel yet, so at least there's that.

Yes, it could be much, much worse.

He looks silently out the window, eyes going out of focus as the scenery melts into one long green blur. This will be the first time he's ever been out of Vermont. His first time to put his skills to the test, first time to contribute directly to the FBI -

"I'm starving, wanna stop and get something to eat?" Agent Winchester grunts, and a quick glance sideways reveals that he's staring fixedly out the windshield. "Maybe if we see a diner or something."

His first time at a diner. "Yes, sir," says Castiel hesitantly, and he watches as Agent Winchester inexplicably flinches.

"Don't call me that."

"Yes… Agent Winchester?" Castiel shrinks further into his seat and he really doesn't know what this man wants from him, what is expected of him. Where is the direction and control that has outlined his entire life up to this point? Its absence aches.

Agent Winchester sighs loudly. "Don't call me that either."

"I'm - sorry, sir," says Castiel in a subdued voice. "What do you want me to call you then?"

The agent's fingers flex against the wheel. "Just Dean, all right? I mean - whatever, you can call me that when we're in front of _Dick_," slight sneer, "but otherwise, just call me Dean. We're partners."

"Partners," Castiel repeats, the word unfamiliar on his lips. Is this a joke? "That's not what Director Roman told me."

"And what exactly did Director Roman tell you?" There's a moment of quiet as Agent Winchester - Dean - puts on his signal and then glances over his shoulder to exit the highway before his gaze slides finally onto Castiel for the first time in what feels like hours. "What, he told you that if you screwed this up, you're fired?"

"Fired?" Castiel's brow furrows in absent confusion. "We aren't fired, Agent… Dean. No, he told me that you are the overseer and commander of this mission, and I am the easily replaced menial laborer." Further silence follows and Castiel frowns, struggling to read it. "But I'm not easily replaced, I swear - I'll work harder than anyone else, and - and if you ever need to me to skip meals, I can, although that might weaken my fighting abilities a bit - but I'll do whatever you need me too, I'll be better than anyone else, I _promise_." He sounds desperate, he realizes, but - well, he is. This is his only chance to prove himself, to show what he's really capable of. If he fails this… well, every OBIT subject knows there's no such thing as second chances.

"We're here," says Dean, voice expressionless as he pulls into a small, rundown looking restaurant and throws the gearshift into park. "Come on."

Maybe he's said too much. Maybe he's overstepped his boundaries. He wasn't supposed to speak and this was a test and he's failed. Fingers trembling, Castiel fumbles with his seatbelt and then nearly trips in his haste to follow the special agent, his shoulders hunched.

Inside the diner, it is small and clean, with tables covered in simple checked red and white patterns. Dean picks a booth in the back and Castiel follows, sliding in across from him after a moment hesitation to make sure this is where he's supposed to sit. Silence creeps in again and Castiel jerks slightly when all of a sudden two menus are laid down between them before a chirpy girl introduces herself and asks for their drink orders.

"Coffee, black," says Dean, and smiles far more warmly at the waitress than he has at either Castiel or Dick. "Thanks, sweetheart."

"And you?" asks the girl, smiling over at Castiel.

"Um… water's fine?" He's never ordered anything before and now looks down at the menu in his hands as the waitress leaves to give them time to think it over. Seventeen years of pre-made food solely eaten for nutritional purposes has sorely limited him and once again he finds himself lost. Maybe Dean doesn't want him to eat. After all, he'd only mentioned his own hunger… Cautiously, Castiel sets the menu aside and folds his hands in his lap.

"Ready?" asks the waitress a moment later, bright smile back in place as she stands with her pen poised over the pad.

"I'll have a cheeseburger and fries, with a slice of apple pie for dessert, thanks," says Dean, and then both eyes are fixed on Castiel and he doesn't know what to do.

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Are you sure?" prompts the waitress. "We've got great mac n' cheese here."

Mac n' cheese? "No, I'm sure," he lies, except his stomach chooses that exact moment to let out a snarling growl. His hands fly to cover his stomach, but it's too late. Dean rolls his eyes, looking annoyed.

"He'll have the same thing as me, thank you."

The waitress nods, smiles again, and leaves; instantly the silence is back, only this time Castiel is too busy attempting to melt into the booth and through the floor to notice it.

"Look, Castiel," says Dean, leaning forward. "This isn't the OBIT. You're not in trouble. But you can't lie to me - and if you're hungry, then you need to say something about it. You're not my pet, and I'm not going to forcefeed you."

"I'm sorry," whispers Castiel, mortified. "I thought -"

"Thought _what_?" asks Dean, and he looks even more aggravated now. He glances around and then purposely lowers his voice, leaning in. "I don't know how they treated you at that fucking OBIT laboratory, all right, but three square meals is the deal here. Four, if you can manage it. You look like you're about to fall over."

Castiel defensively straightens his admittedly small shoulders. "They fed us there."

Dean simply looks at him.

"Well, they did. Every meal was carefully calculated to provide the optimal amount of nutritional value needed for our day," he says. "Sometimes they provided vitamin tablets on top of that, to ensure that we received everything that we needed."

"Cas, that's not eating, that's like - I mean, yeah, it is, but it's not _eating _eating. Have you ever even had chocolate?" Dean demands, and when Castiel simply stares at him, looks affronted. "You've never even had _chocolate_? Good God, Cas, please tell me you've had a hamburger before."

"I've had… beef," says Castiel hesitantly. Why is Dean calling him 'Cas'? He's aware of nicknames, but - generally they're used between friends, and they are not friends, not in the vaguest sense of the word. At least, he doesn't think they are. "Lean beef, finely chopped and mixed in with whole wheat noodles, occasionally."

"For fuck's sake," mutters Dean, shaking his head.

Castiel is nonplussed. "I will take into consideration whatever eating habits you believe to be the most beneficial, Agent Winchester -"

"Great," says Dean as the waitress approaches them laden with plates. "Then eat your damn cheeseburger and don't call me that."

Castiel waits for Dean to pick up his burger before hesitantly taking his own food in his hands - no fork? - and lifting it up to his mouth. Dean is watching him with an expectant expression and Castiel bites down on the corner, chewing it to completion before swallowing and feeling his eyes widen.

"Well?" asks Dean.

"It's…" He doesn't know what to say and instead bites down again, taking a larger portion.

Oddly, this of all things seems to make Dean lose his hard expression, and he smirks. "Welcome to the real world, kid."

He knows it's unhealthy - it has to be, tasting this way - but that doesn't stop him from eating it faster than he's ever eaten anything in his entire life. It's gone before he can stop to breathe, and only when he sits back with a little groan does he realize Dean's staring at him.

"Might wanna slow down there," he says, lifting his eyebrows.

"I - I'm sorry, I -"

"Will you stop apologizing?"

"I'm sorry -" says Castiel again and then frowns down into his lap. What is he supposed to say now? _Nothing_, a small voice says. _Don't speak at all._ _Obedience_. Right. Obedience. That's what he's built for, after all.

Silence again. He's never tasted anything like that in his entire life - hot and juicy, fresh, agonizingly delicious, and now he understands obesity, he thinks. How can he not eat that every day, now that he's had it once? But Dean thought he ate it too fast. Dean must think he has no self-control - but he does, it's all he has, he can prove Dean wrong. He has to, if he doesn't want to get sent back, and everything within Castiel tightens painfully at that idea. Getting sent back is the very last thing he wants.

"Know much about the case then?" Dean asks, and immediately Castiel looks up. Finally, something he knows about.

"We're tracking down the main suppliers of Grace, not just arresting minor dealers. The Grace is taken from Grace-touched objects, which are items most recently handled by angels and then collected by humans to -"

"Yeah, yeah," says Dean, waving this aside. "I got that part, I'm aware. So this is your first time doing this kind of thing, right?"

He nods, eyes dropping to the table. There's something about the way Dean's looking at him - open and frank, as though Castiel is his equal - that unnerves him. It's not right at all. "Thank you for the food, Agent Winchester."

Dean sighs. "Yeah. You're welcome. Listen, is there any way you could maybe stop flinching every time I ask you something?"

Castiel's hands tighten against each other in his lap. "I'm -" but he'd told him not to apologize, and so instead he just falls silent again, something clogging his throat. The expectations here are unclear - and each step he takes feels like it's in the wrong direction. What does this man want from him?

"So, what do you do for fun then?"

He looks up, blinking in surprise at the seemingly random question. "Fun?"

"Yeah," says Dean, chewing on a fry. "Watch movies, skateboard, play video games - I don't know, fun."

He's at a complete loss. "I… read books."

"What's your favorite?"

_What is the purpose of knowing this? _Castiel wonders. "I liked Darwin's _On the Origin of Species _a lot. I'd like to know how he'd included angels into his theory, if he were told of their existence."

Dean has an unreadable expression on his face. "Wow, okay. Thought you were going to say _Harry Potter_ or something, but yeah, that's cool too."

What is Dean really asking here? The OBIT would never allow their subjects to read science fiction or fantasy - or anything that wasn't educational, as a matter of fact. But Castiel doesn't say this, merely nods and stares back down at the table.

A beat of silence passes and then Dean coughs. "Normally this is where you'd ask me the same question back."

He glances back up again. "What is it you like to do for fun, Agent Winchester?" he asks formally.

"_Dean_." Right, Dean. It still feels like a trap, but Castiel nods anyway. "There's a few shows I try to keep up with - but you've probably never heard of any of them. The old Star Trek shows are pretty good, when I get a spare moment. Haven't had a lot of those recently though…"

Castiel doesn't think he's ever been this confused in his life and he's grateful for the slight reprieve when the dessert comes and the conversation ends. Nothing that's happened so far is on par with anything he's ever known. It makes him feel tense and on edge, like he could be punished for anything at any moment. Silence is the best defense he has - and so no matter what else Agent Winchester says for the rest of the meal, Castiel does nothing but nod along and keep his mouth shut. Silence protects him - and finally Agent Winchester (Dean) seems to give up, bringing the conversation to a halt and only slightly relieving the pressure building in Castiel's chest.

* * *

The hotel room is small, but there are two beds and the hotel clerk had stopped looking at Dean suspiciously after he'd said Castiel was his nephew, so at least he's not getting arrested for child molestation any time soon. There's a faint hint of something that smells like whiskey, but it's passable. Dean's had far, far worse.

"Do you want to take a shower first or do you want me to?" Dean asks the kid, and then suppresses the urge to groan as Castiel automatically looks wary.

"You can go first."

He's getting absolutely nowhere with him and it's frustrating the hell out of Dean. Why did he have to get stuck with the dysfunctional one? "No, you go ahead, I can wait."

"Are you sure?" There it is again, the hesitance, the submissive lowering of his head, the nervous way his eyes flit between Dean and all the exits. Like he's constantly waiting for Dean to fly off the deep end and punch him or something.

"I'm good." To prove this, Dean sinks down onto one of the beds, uncomfortably feeling his suit jacket tighten in the shoulders with the movement. A second later, with another cautious glance over his shoulder to make sure it's still okay, Castiel disappears into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.

A few passing moments later and the water turns on.

Dean sighs, reaching up with one hand to rub at his forehead. "What am I going to do," he mutters, because there's simply no way he can work this way - constantly reassuring his so-called partner that he can make his own choice if he wants to. He didn't sign up for a fucking babysitting job - granted, he didn't sign up for this at all, but honestly, how do they expect him to break up a class A drug ring with some inexperience kid trailing along?

The answer is: they don't. 'Course, Dean doesn't have any proof, but he's not a Special Agent for the FBI for nothing. He screwed up; he brought negative press to his department; he was sent to trial for his actions. So now they've shunted him off to an impossible case with an impossible kid for a partner, expecting him to fail. Wanting him to fail, most likely. And with Castiel fucking hanging around waiting on his every word, he probably will.

And then Castiel will get sent back to the OBIT and Dean will get reassigned to Organized Crime and all will be right with the world.

And Castiel will go back to eating his fucking nutritional diet.

"Never had a cheeseburger," scoffs Dean to himself and then lets his gaze land on the bathroom door. What's next? Soon he's going to find out that this is the kid's first shower as well, God damn. Dean shrugs out of his suit jacket, feeling an ache in his temple begin to build. Well, it's not his fault that OBIT is a shitty place to live. He has no power over what goes on there - hell, no one does. It's hidden away, tucked in its own little corner, and as long as they keep producing certified workers, no one's going to bother them.

Even if the so-called certified workers are underage and underfed and look scared at every little thing that happens nearby.

"Shit," says Dean, because he's starting to realize that if he screws up on this case, as he's mildly tempted to do, Castiel will definitely get sent back and who the hell knows what will happen to him if they think he cost them the case - Dean's eyes land on the sleek briefcase they'd given to him once he'd been assigned an OBIT partner, 'For further obedience.'

Getting up, he stretches briefly and shoots another glance at the bathroom, satisfied that the shower's still running before he lifts the bag up to the table and stares at the four-number combination lock on it for a moment before he thumbs the numbers into place and snaps it open. Inside are four clear pill bottles, all snapped into place and labelled with meticulous handwriting. Dean frowns and slides one out, bringing it up to the light to read: _Class A Disobedience. _

"What the hell does that mean?" he asks the room at large and then looks at the other three which are apparently for classes B, C, and D. "And what exactly do you do, hmm?" he murmurs, moving to twist the cap off one. Can't hurt to try one himself, just to get a taste of -

The door to the bathroom starts opening and Dean panics, sliding the bottle back into its case and then clicking the briefcase shut before turning around to see Castiel standing there in nothing but a loosely held towel around his hips, his hair dripping wet and falling into his face.

"I forgot my suitcase in here," he says solemnly, and Dean, realizing he's staring at Castiel's smooth chest, snaps his eyes up. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," says Dean automatically and then feels himself grow the slightest bit hard at Castiel's instant flush. Of course Castiel obeys him. Of course he does. Oh shit. Oh shit, shit.

Silently, Castiel moves forward, retrieving his simple black duffel bag and seemingly oblivious to the way Dean's eyes trail him around the room. His towel slips slightly as he moves, revealing sharp hipbones, and Dean awkwardly tries to adjust his jeans as Castiel ducks his head and slips back into the steamy bathroom.

It's official. Dean is the biggest pervert in the entire world. He deserved the check-in clerk's suspicious look because he just basically ogled a seventeen year old boy who is in a significantly inferior position of power to Dean and who constantly looks like he's about to be attacked. Fucking hell.

"Cas?" he calls, willing his voice not to waver. "Can you hurry it up a bit? I'm gonna need that shower soon."

And of course Castiel obeys.

Of course he does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Dean wakes up in the middle of the night to screaming.

He jolts awake, automatically pulling his gun out from underneath his pillow and stumbling out of bed, holding it aloft as he searches for the intruder. The screaming doesn't stop and goddamn, Dean almost shoots Castiel in his sleep as he turns, both hands poised on his handgun with his finger at the trigger. He pauses just long enough for his sleep-addled brain to decipher who is making the noise and why and then he drops the gun to his side with a wild breath and moves forward.

"Hey," he says, pausing at the end of Castiel's twin bed. The boy is wearing nothing but a large, nondescript shirt and white underpants and he's covered in sweat, the sheets tangled at the end of the bed as he tosses and turns and _screams_. Dean doesn't know what to do. "Hey, kid. Wake up. You're dreaming."

It doesn't stop - if anything, it only gets worse; it practically looks like Castiel's throwing a fit, he's shaking so hard. And - fuck, he's crying too, which only makes Dean feel more at a loss.

And then for a moment he's twelve and already taking on the responsibilities for his absent father and Sam's crawling into his bed and whispering he had a nightmare, Dean, will you please sing me to sleep, please?

Dean shakes himself back to a different hotel room, a different boy shaking with unseen horrors, and before he can stop himself, he's moving down the bed and reaching down to grip Castiel's shoulder, tugging at him. "Hey, hey," he says quietly, and is nearly smacked in the face as Castiel wakes up with a gasp. "Hey, it's just me. It's Dean."

"I'm sorry - I'm sorry," says Castiel, shuddering down and away from Dean, shrinking in size. "I'm so sorry -"

"Hey, you're not dreaming anymore," says Dean, reaching out a hand and then stilling as Castiel's eyes widen in terror. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you, Cas."

But Castiel doesn't seem to realize this yet. Or - worse, he does and this is his reaction anyway. Shit. "Please," he whispers, tears welling up in his bright eyes - eyes which Dean are only truly seeing now, and damn, they are the brightest blue he's ever seen in his entire life. "Please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up -"

"Cas," says Dean reprovingly, and he's disgusted that Castiel is actually _apologizing _for having a nightmare. What the fuck did they do to him in that fucking laboratory - and then before he can say anything else, another quick shudder is running through Castiel's slim body and he's sliding out of the bed and nearly falling on his way to his bag, where he rips it open and pulls out a bottle.

"What are you -" begins Dean, and then shuts up as Cas quickly opens up the bottle and downs two pills dry, a harsh gasp leaving his lips as the second one goes down. "Dude, what the hell."

"I'm sorry," says Castiel again, shoulders hunching as he turns back towards Dean. Already he looks better though, less pale. He's still shaking, however, and his eyes still stand out starkly in his sweat-covered face. He reaches up with trembling hands to wipe off his face, moving afterwards to swipe through his damp hair and leave it sticking up in all directions. "They - they calm me down."

"Didn't I see you taking some this morning too?" Dean demands. "What was that for?" And then, realizing he sounds accusatory, he softens his voice: "Look, I'm not interrogating you. Come back and sit down."

Slowly, Castiel moves, his eyes not leaving Dean's for one second as he cautiously sits back down on the opposite edge as Dean. "I'm supposed to take them. It optimizes my control throughout the rest of the day."

"Optimizes your control," repeats Dean. "Control over _what_?"

Castiel just blinks at him and looks very, very young.

"Okay, it doesn't matter. But just don't - abuse them or anything," he says lamely. Dean looks away for a moment, wondering for the thousandth time what exactly he did to deserve this (except, oh _right_) and then looks back at Castiel. "What was your nightmare about?"

Now Castiel looks away, flushing miserably from his neck up, a slow heat. "Nothing important."

"If you don't talk about it, it won't go away," says Dean in a coaxing sort of voice, like he used to use on Sammy (_don't think about it_). "Come on, who am I gonna tell?"

Castiel stares at him.

"Want me to share one of mine first? All right, this one time I had a dream that I was taking a bath or whatever and then blood just started pouring out of the faucet with no warning, and then all of a sudden Mini Me from _Austin Powers_ was there and started attacking me and - What?"

"What's Austin Powers?"

"Cas, man… we _really _have to work on pop culture knowledge, if you're ever going to get any of my jokes." It was one thing not to know Motorhead - they were sort of before the kid's time, after all, but _Austin Powers_? Come on.

"I dreamed that I was locked in the Isolation cell," says Castiel after a moment, looking away from Dean with haunted eyes. "And no one ever came looking for me, so I was just left in there forever, for the rest of my life."

Dean blinks. He honestly hadn't expected Castiel to tell him and now - "What's the Isolation cell?"

Castiel frowns down at his hands almost immediately as if he's done something wrong, said something he shouldn't have. "It's a form of punishment for us. They consider isolation to be very effective for discouraging negative behavior at the OBIT."

"You… You've been locked in a room by yourself?" He honestly feels a bit sick, thinking of the time Sammy got himself locked in a closet for four hours and came out of shaking and clinging to Dean for days afterwards. He'd still seemed a little claustrophobic, even - "For how long?"

He's expecting a thirty minutes, a form of time-out, maybe, and so thoroughly chokes when Castiel says, as calm as ever, "Nothing over a week."

"A - a week?" sputters Dean. "That's -"

"Well, sometimes they might give more than a week, but only if you really deserve it," says Castiel, now looking thoughtful. "If you try to - you know, leave without permission."

"You mean fucking _escape_?"

"Um," says Castiel, looking now as though he doesn't know if this is a test or not. "No one tries to _escape_ the OBIT."

"So you're telling me you've been isolated for more than a day?"

Castiel looks bewildered. "Several days, Dean. But only when I did something wrong, only for punishment."

It's like a punch to the gut. "Like what type of wrong things would you do to deserve it?"

"I don't know…" frowns Castiel. "One time I missed six consecutive questions on muscles that make up the core of your body."

Dean stares at him long enough to make the kid shift. "That's it? That's all you did wrong?"

"But I never missed that many again," explains Castiel, and Dean honestly can't believe he's hearing this. "It's to give us strength and control."

"You're fucking _kids_."

"I'm seventeen, Dean."

"But when it happened?" Dean persists.

Cas looks away again.

"That's what I thought. Cas, it's _illegal_ to put juveniles in solitary confinement for over a day - and that's for criminals, kids that have actually done something to deserve jail. You - you missed six questions on a fucking health exam. That deserves a B minus, not _isolation for a week._"

"I think you're overreacting," whispers Castiel, still looking away, and all of a sudden Dean remembers what exactly he had a nightmare about.

God, he's such an asshole. "Hey," he says, more gently. "Look, you're not there any more, okay? They're not going to… I'm not going to send you to solitary confinement if you get six questions wrong, okay? Hell, even if you get twenty questions wrong, you're still doing good in my book, okay?"

Castiel slowly turns his head to look at Dean and when he does, Dean is horrified to see a glassy look in his eyes that warns of more tears. "I just can't," he says hoarsely, and he seems to draw in on himself, looking small and tired and miserable. "Because when I go in there, I - I feel like I'm not real any more. Like I can't remember who I am."

"You are not going back," says Dean loudly, more firmly than he intended, and he watches as Castiel flinches back with surprise. "And if you do - I will get you out. You will not be stuck in there for the rest of your life, I promise."

There is absolutely no trust in the kid's face, which Dean guesses he deserves. Rome wasn't built in a day, after all. "What else did they do to you in there?"

Instantly, Castiel's expression closes up. "Nothing."

Right. He's defending their reputation for some reason. As if the situation wasn't fucked up already, it looks like Castiel thinks he owes these shitbags some kind of loyalty. He wants to take this all up with Bobby immediately - but out of all the people able to change this situation, Dean is the least capable right now. He's already on the verge of being fired, just barely off trial. There's nothing but roadblocks all around him.

They stare at each other for a moment and it is more than Dean can fucking handle to see Castiel sitting there so still and small - and he jerks his head back to his bed, standing up and holding out an arm. "Come on."

"What?" asks Castiel blankly.

"Get up. Come on. You're sleeping with me tonight."

"I -" he blanches. "I'm not - I can't do that to you -"

"Do what to me? I had a kid brother, all right, I'm used to sharing a bed. Come on. But first put some damn pants on."

"Jeans?" asks Castiel quaveringly.

"Sweatpants. Or pajama pants." A pause and then, exasperatedly, "Do you have any?"

Castiel shakes his head mutely and Dean crosses to his bag, shuffling through it for a moment before ripping out a pair of gray sweatpants and tossing it to the kid, who puts it on.

He doesn't care if it's inappropriate, which it almost definitely is. Except it's also definitely inappropriate to lock a kid in a cell for any period of time and that's already happened and now Dean's being forced to clean up the aftermath. If letting a kid sleep in his bed is what it takes then, hell, take one for the team, that's what Dean's always said.

Castiel shivers, slipping under the covers, and remains on the very edge of the bed for a moment until Dean takes his arm and tugs him closer to the middle of the bed. "Relax," he tells him.

"I can't," whispers Castiel, sounding frightened.

Dean sighs. This has been the longest damn day. "Why not?"

"It's your personal space," comes the whisper.

"It's called sharing," Dean replies, and then purposely shifts to get comfortable and bumps his leg into Castiel's who instantly recoils. There's a long moment and then slowly the sheets rustle and Dean stays still - waits until the leg is back in the original spot, slowly touching his. Just barely, but it's there.

It's a slow process but minute by minute, the boy next to him seems to grow more relaxed - forgetting to hold himself still and letting himself melt down into the mattress. An elbow brushes Dean's side.

It's progress.

* * *

Castiel wakes up slowly and wonderfully, blinking sleepily for a moment and then feeling cool air brush his nose and letting out a soft whimper of remorse. He turns his head down into the comforter and buries down further, wriggling his hips just slightly to get into the hole he has made for himself in the bed sometime in the middle of the night.

The arm wrapped snugly around his waist tightens, pulling him back, and Castiel freezes, eyes flying open. Slowly, cautiously, he examines the position he's in on the precariously small twin bed - Dean is behind him, legs entangled with his, his nose pressed against the back of Castiel's neck. He shifts slightly, sighing something in his sleep, and curls further around Castiel, his hand sleepily moving back and forth against Castiel's stomach.

It is impossibly warm and impossibly safe and impossibly dangerous, as well. He can only imagine what Dean's reaction would be if he woke up to find himself spooning a minor. Spooning his partner, who he has done nothing but sneer at the entire time they've been together.

Except - well, except for last night, and Castiel flushes with shame, thinking back to the tears and babbling. He'd acted so unprofessional, no doubt simply confirming the thoughts Agent Winchester had already had about him.

What if he really is incapable for this job?

He thinks back to the hours of training - the hours of being pushed to his limits, of being dropped down in a desert with no means of survival and told to find his way back to the base in less than 48 hours or else. The times when the OBIT leaders would lock him in a suffocatingly small tunnel and tell him to break his way out. All those years of burning struggles - and it might not be enough.

He closes his eyes tightly, bringing the covers up to press hard into his eyes until he sees nothing but dark red.

The hand at his waist finds the bit of open skin between his oversized t-shirt and Dean's sweatpants, and Castiel bites down on the back of his hand hard as a thumb slowly strokes the patch of skin there, tantalizingly soft and slow. Dean's heavy breathing continues on, setting the back of Castiel's neck aflame.

He doesn't know when he falls back asleep, but somehow he does, and when he wakes up much later, Dean is gone and the bed is cold.

* * *

"Fuck," whispers Dean, watching wide-eyed as Castiel sinks down to his knees and looks up at him with eager, earnest eyes. Thin hands reach up to tug at Dean's belt and Dean just lets them, unable to move or stop or think as Cas unbuttons and unzips his pants and then gently tugs down his jeans. "Fuck, Cas, oh God. You," son of a bitch, he really hates himself sometimes, "you don't have to do this, I swear, don't force yourself to -"

"Just let me," murmurs Castiel, and he leans in, nuzzling Dean's cock through his boxers and letting his tongue dart out to lick through the fabric. "Just want to be good, Dean."

"So good," says Dean, and he wants to speed this up, wants to force Cas to just sit there and take it but instead he leans back against the wall and keeps his eyes locked on the young face before him, his breathing shallow as he waits for the next movement. God, he's a sick fucker and he knows it.

"Do you want me?" asks Castiel, his hands on Dean's hips and his thumbs rubbing little circles into the skin there. His mouth is bruised from Dean's kisses and his hair is wild from Dean's hands and he looks sultry and innocent and _God_, Dean wants him, so goddamn much.

"More than anything," he rasps out.

"Good," smiles Castiel, and then he's pulling down Dean's boxers, down down and leaning in, not hesitating a second before he licks a long stripe up Dean's cock, and then again and again, licking eagerly and messy until Dean's actually whimpering.

"Fuck," he says, reaching down to entangle one hand into Castiel's hair and feeling the rough strands slip through his fingers. "Yeah, baby, you're doing so good for me, come on, you can do more."

"Mmm," says Castiel and then, without further preamble, takes Dean's cock into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing out slightly as he closes his eyes and sucks down hard. His tongue moves, his throat constricts, and Dean moans loud, his head thunking back against the wall as his fingers tighten.

"Yes, yes, sweetheart, just like that," he says, and then, unable to help himself, he rocks forward slightly, edging his way deeper into Castiel's mouth. His breath is dragged out of him a needy rush, his eyes dilated to the point where it is nearly all black as he looks down at the burning hot sight before him. "You're doing so good, Cas."

Dean sucks in a quick breath as all of a sudden Castiel shifts, lowering himself on his haunches so that he can blink up at Dean with his lips swollen around Dean's cock and shiny with spit and pre-come. Hesitantly, worried to go too fast, Dean thrusts shallowly into the wet heat, a low groan leaving his mouth at the sensation.

Except. Except this doesn't seem like it's enough for Castiel and suddenly hands are on Dean's hips, holding him down, and Castiel ruthlessly sets the pace, working his mouth up and down while dirty little moans make his throat vibrate against Dean. It's enough to drive anyone insane, and certainly enough to make Dean's whole body seize up within minutes and he's crying out, "Fuck, I'm coming, _fuck,_" and he expects Castiel to move away but instead all he does is take in as much of Dean as he can, gripping his hips tightly and burying his nose in Dean's groin as he swallows and swallows.

And then Dean wakes up to the hardest boner he's ever had in his life and the very same teenager locked in his arms.

"Fuck," he whispers, feeling sweat drip down his back.

This is the least okay thing that's ever happened to him.

He's got to get out of this room. Pronto. Like, five minutes ago he should have been out of this room.

He needs to put that dream into the file Things That are Not Okay and then lock that file in the file cabinet Forbidden and then throw the file cabinet into the lake of fire. And then maybe then never sleep ever again.

Carefully, Dean extracts himself from the sleepy tangle of Castiel's limbs, making a face at the boy's drowsy little whimper and then tiptoeing to the bathroom.

The shower runs hot over his back and Dean rests his forehead against his forearm which is propped up against the tiles, biting his lip hard to keep the groans in as he drags his hand down his erection. Soap suds gather around his hand as he moves faster, the taut muscles in his back shining with water as he gives into the tension that's been gathering for 36 hours now.

Somehow in the middle of the night he'd twisted around so that he was holding Castiel in his arms - and when he'd woken up, the first thing he'd done was further press his face into the pitch black hair, dragging the sleepy kid further into his embrace. It hadn't helped that he'd been rock hard from the dream and Castiel had kept shifting in his sleep, moving his thin, sharp hips back into Dean's interested dick. With anyone else (anyone _older_) it would have been the perfect introduction into morning sex, hazy and slow, but this was _not __right_, not at all, not on any level.

And yet here he is, shuddering and gasping and struggling not to picture Castiel moaning beneath him.

"Fu-uck," he whispers, slowing down his hand as he purposely drags soapy fingers along his cock, twisting at the head. It's a good kind of torture, drawing out the pleasure, and he presses his eyes more tightly shut, unable to stop the images from blooming up.

Castiel, whimpering and begging for more.

Inexperienced and needing Dean's guiding hand to get off for the first time (unrealistic, perhaps, but it makes Dean groan harder).

Full of cock and still thrusting helplessly for more because he needs it so much.

"Shit, shit," whispers Dean and speeds back up, rocking into his hand until he's crying out into the back of his hand and coming hard.

Surprisingly not the most shameful thing he's ever masturbated about, if he thinks hard enough. There was that phase - well. Well. Not the most shameful thing he's ever wanked over, but still bad enough. There's no justifying this one.

His legs tremble as he straightens and stares mournfully at the shampoo bottle. He doesn't want to clean his hair now - he wants to go back and sink back into bed and sleep the rest of the day. Instead, he gets to look forward to officially introducing Castiel to the job and -

"Shit," he says again. How is he supposed to look him in the face after he just fucking masturbated in the shower to him like a horny teenager? It would be better if he _were_ a horny teenager - no, he's just a thirty-one-year-old man who hasn't had sex in months. God.

Dean scrubs at his face with his clean hand and wishes he could scrub his mind the same way, purging himself of all inappropriate thoughts he might ever have again.

_Not a perv, not a perv_, he chants silently.

The shampoo has the generic, hotel-shampoo smell. Nothing exciting about it whatsoever. Except Castiel had clearly used it last night because that's exactly what his hair smelled like this morning, with Dean's nose buried in.

_Bit of a perv_, he revises.

The glass is steamy when he gets out and he wipes a bit away, staring at himself in the mirror for a long moment with disdain in his eyes. "Don't fuck this up," he threatens himself in a whisper, staring with hard eyes. "Not again."

His reflection is impassive.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Dean listens for a long moment next to the door, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to hear if Castiel is awake or not - honestly, he won't know what he'll do if he is, he needs his clothes and they're all out there, but the warning would be nice.

All is silent, thank God, though, and he opens the door and slides out into the crisp air.

To see Castiel sitting placidly at the table with his bottle of pills at his side, looking directly at Dean.

"Uh, hey," says Dean, and then nods at his bag. "Just… getting my clothes."

Castiel nods and keeps staring.

Right then.

He's silent for two beats and then, too uncomfortable to let it remain so, Dean says, "We've got a lead, some hints of Grace use in a town in Minnesota, so, yeah." He keeps his back to Castiel, searching pointedly for his clothes. "And then they want us to have a lecture with some pot users."

"Why?" comes the raspy question. Dean simply cannot get over the fact that a seventeen-year-old has the voice of a sex god. Should be illegal.

He finally turns, holding his towel with one hand and his clothes in the other. "Why what?"

"Why are stopping to talk with marijuana frequenters?" A sex god who talks like a dictionary personified, that is.

"Prevention, I suppose," Dean shrugs. "Want us to scare them into either becoming narcs or never getting close enough to Grace to even smell it."

"Which one is first?"

"The lead. Gotta get it while it's hot, as they say." He wants to say something funny, lighten the mood - especially since the kid's probably feeling a bit awkward after last night's show - but everything in his mind is utterly blank except for those burning blue eyes and the words _anything you want_. Right. Time to go back into the bathroom and reassure himself again of his non-pedophilic state.

He can't escape the room fast enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"Well, this is a bust," says Dean after about two hours of sitting in the Impala.

Castiel glances over at him and then down at his rumbling stomach, making a face and shifting slightly in his seat. Apparently someone had heard rumors of selling going on at this particular street corner and had anonymously tipped off the police station which had contacted Dean's handler who had contacted Dean. It was clearly a big enough lead to warrant them driving all the way out here to check on it.

So far though, no luck.

"Not even someone walking their damn dog," Dean complains and then glances over at Castiel's stomach. "Hungry?"

"No," Castiel lies, and then slides down in his seat a little as he feels Dean's gaze stay locked on him. The coffee they'd both ordered is long out of order; Dean's swallowed and Castiel's ice cold. "Well, we can't leave even if I am," he points out. "They might come at any moment."

"Any moment," scoffs Dean, but looks away.

They're silent for a long moment. Dean had been playing music for a while before he'd seemingly got bored of it twenty minutes ago - then it had been nothing but the sounds of their breathing, growing louder and louder as time went by. At this point, Castiel felt sensitive to everything, aching for some sort of stimuli. He wasn't built for this - this sitting around, waiting for something to happen. He wants to fight, to investigate.

"Hey," says Dean, and Castiel immediately sits up, wide-eyed and alert. But Dean's not paying attention to the corner again; he's looking mischievous. "Wanna play a game?"

Castiel's voice is hollow as he asks, "A game?"

"All right, all right, you don't have to sound so enthusiastic about it," mutters Dean, slumping back against his seat. He taps his fingers idly against the console between their seats for a moment, drumming out a rhythm.

Castiel frowns slightly. "What sort of game?"

The other man brightens. "I Spy."

"What's that?"

A gaping look of disbelief. Castiel honestly can't believe this man is a Special Agent of the FBI. Age thirty-one years, service in the government seven years. "You don't know what I Spy is? What did you losers used to do when you were bored?"

Cautiously, "Test each other's reflexes with a sparring match. Or quiz each other on the different types of antidotes to common poisons."

"Wow, you kids got real crazy, didn't you," says Dean flatly and then seems to brush it off. "All right, well, it's simple. Just look for something and then say the color of it and the other person has to guess. So I could say, 'I spy with my little eye something green.' And it could be my jacket, see? Okay, I'll go first. I spy with my little eye…. something red."

"The stop sign," says Castiel immediately.

Dean grins. "Amateur. No."

Castiel narrows his eyes. "The… streetlight."

"Nope."

Castiel huffs loudly. "Is this a trick? Does it really exist?"

"Of course it exists!" says Dean hotly. "I don't cheat at I Spy."

"Is it alive?"

"This isn't Twenty Questions," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "Just guess already."

Castiel makes a frustrated noise (what is Twenty Questions?) and then rattles off, "The glare of sunlight off that building. The label on the underside of that can in the alleyway. The flecks of clay in the stone."

"God, you're terrible," says Dean. "No, no, and no."

"I quit."

"You're no fun."

Castiel stubbornly stares out the window.

"You give up?"

"I believe that is what 'I quit' means."

"Wow, someone really is hungry," Dean says, and then just as he opens his mouth to give it away, Castiel gets it.

"The light indicating the radio is on!" he says loudly, and feels a rush of satisfaction at Dean's indicating grin. So that's why people play. For that feeling of triumph. It's odd, something so small, but he feels… better because of it. Like he passed some sort of odd test Dean had arranged for him.

"All right, your turn," says Dean, drumming his hands now on the steering wheel. "Shoot."

"Green," says Castiel immediately.

"No, no – you have to begin with 'I spy with my little eye.'"

"Why?"

"Because – because. You just do," says Dean, sounding as though this is the first time he's ever actually considered it. "It's like, one of two rules of the game, man, come on."

Castiel is exasperated. "All right, fine. I spy with my little eye something green."

Dean is silent for a moment, scrunching up his nose as he peers through the front mirror, scanning everything with eyes used to searching – and then he looks inside the car, looking all around, front seat, back seat, even into the console between them before all of a sudden a look of utter exasperation crosses his face and he places a hand over his face. "Cas," he says, voice muffled.

"Yes?"

"Is it my jacket?"

"Oh," says Castiel. "You got that much quicker than I expected. Very good job."

"Cas, the point is to choose something _different _from what I did –"

"Hey," says Castiel abruptly, sitting up straight and staring as a hooded figure rounds the building they're watching and stands at the corner, hands in his pockets and head lowered. "Is that him?"

Dean is quiet, staring at him for a long moment before turning towards Castiel. "Get out."

Castiel startles. "Get - what?"

"Get out. Now. Take this," he says, reaching into the floorboards of the backseat and picking something up. He throws it into Castiel's lap, who, looking down, realizes it's a roll of money. A thick roll. "Don't draw attention to yourself, just ask him if he's selling and then buy it from him if he is. I've got the camera on you; walk around the block once so that he doesn't see you coming from the Impala. _Go._"

And that's how Castiel finds himself slowly walking around the block, wondering how he's going to commit a drug deal when he's never even bought a Happy Meal.

"Just do it like they told you," he mutters to himself, ignoring the fact that this is possibly the one circumstance he's never had training in. Talking to people will always be the hardest part of the job, harder than anything else.

Slowly, Castiel approaches the youth, struggling not to glance towards the Impala for instruction and give it all away. Up close, he can see that the kid is young - possibly younger than Castiel is, and Castiel pauses a few feet away, struggling to open his mouth. Finally, mouth dry, he asks, "Are you - selling?"

The kid turns, dragging his hood down and revealing hazy eyes and a frown. "Dude, what? I'm waiting for my mom to pick me up."

"I - oh." If he could curl up and die of shame, it would be this moment, right here, that was the cause of it. This time he really does glance towards the Impala, eyes searching something out, and only finds Dean pretending to drink from the empty coffee cup. There's no film equipment in sight. What is he supposed to do?

Dean didn't cover this. The OBIT didn't cover this.

Castiel just stands there, hands hanging limply at his sides, pocket bulging with money.

"Are you sure?" he finally asks, and the kid turns back around, squinting at him suspiciously.

"Look," he says. "You're not exactly the type that looks like he wants to get high anyway. Go to the library or something."

"No," says Castiel awkwardly. "I do. Really. I just - um. For. Recreational purposes."

The kid squints. "You a cop?"

Instantly, Castiel bristles, on the defense. "No! No, I'm not. Do I look like a cop? _Dude_," he adds helplessly, trying to loosen up.

"I don't know, anyone could be a cop," he shrugs. "My friend Ricky says not to trust anyone without a reference."

"Well - well," flounders Castiel. "I don't have a reference because… I'm new. I've never done anything like this. But I just really want some."

"Sorry," he says, and starts to turn away. "Without a reference, I don't trust nobody -"

"Wait! I - I have money," Castiel says because it looks like he's about to lose their one potential lead and he can only imagine Dean's disappointment at such a thing, and stupidly pulls out the entire roll of cash.

He sees it the moment that it happens - the way the kid's eyes light up in greed, the way his mouth curves in a dark smile, the way his body tenses as he pulls out a pocketknife from his pocket and flicks it open, pointing it at Castiel. "That's a lot of cash," says the kid. "Do you really need all that just to pay back overdue library books? Come on, hand it over."

Castiel doesn't hesitate, doesn't think. He moves forward, lightning fast, arms going out to grip the boy's extended arm and wrap around his wrist. He plants his foot, twists the wrist so that the knife is released, turns, heaves the arm over his shoulder and the boy's weight up and over so that he crashes down onto the ground. He's up, shouting, and Castiel moves again, sweeping down to pick up the knife and then planting his foot in the middle of the boy's back to hold him down.

"Do you sell Grace?" asks Castiel in a hard voice, gripping the boy's arm and yanking it back. "Do you know who does?"

"What? No!" squeaks the kid. "I'm just selling _pot_! Get off me!"

It's a hard move, but Castiel doesn't want any more struggling: he moves his foot and then grips the back of the kid's hoodie and pulls him up and then down, grimacing as his head cracks against the concrete and the kid goes limp. Straightening up, Castiel examines the knife, noting the brand and scuff marks on the handle, and then turns as he hears the sound of running footsteps.

"What the hell?" demands Dean, looking in between the two of them. "What happened?"

"He attempted to coerce me into giving him the money," says Castiel, blinking at him. "He doesn't sell Grace. He sells marijuana."

Dean drags a hand over his face, staring at the sky for a moment before he looks at Castiel and steps forward, snatching the knife out of his hand. "Give me that," he mutters. "This whole thing was pointless. Obviously this idiot doesn't know anything; it was probably just a false lead anyway. But you can't go fucking kung fu on whoever tries to attack you, Cas."

"He had a knife," points out Castiel.

"Yeah, well, it's not like he was actually going to stab you, was he? Kid's like fifteen or something. Once you saw he was this young, you should have just let him alone," says Dean, obviously irritated. The Dean who was playing I Spy with him in the car is clearly long gone. "Let's go."

"Are we just going to leave him here?"

"What do you want me to do, arrest him? He's a kid selling pot and he just got knocked flat on his ass. That's punishment enough." Dean lets a long look fall on the limp body before he looks up at Castiel with flat eyes. "He's your mess. You figure it out." Before stalking off.

"I was just doing what you told me too," says Castiel, but either Dean doesn't hear or he doesn't care because he keeps walking and Castiel's left with the unconscious body of a teenage drug dealer. He doesn't know what to do except drag the body off to the side so that it's not as obvious and pull him into a sitting position, making a face as his head hangs off to one side.

"Maybe this will convince you not to sell marijuana any more," Castiel tells him, and then straightens and looks around. If only he could find something of use out here. If only he could somehow crack open the entire case, and then Dean would stop looking at him like he's an annoying little trainee and actually trust him to do the job right.

But there's nothing there, and, frustrated, he heaves a little sigh and trails back to the Impala.

* * *

It takes Dean an embarrassingly long amount of time to figure out how to open up PowerPoint on the laptop they'd provided for him and he's eternally grateful that he's doing this before the kids arrive so that they don't realize how completely incompetent he is when it comes to electronics. Hard to frighten a bunch of thirteen-year-olds when they watch you struggle for thirty minutes on how to open up a program they've understood since they were toddlers.

Castiel is silent, sitting in one of the front seats, watching the whole time.

Finally, Dean grunts, "Can you get your judgmental ass up here and help me prepare? You're going to have to speak too, you know."

This seems to finally break him from his impassive state. "Me? Dean, they are not going to be intimidated into moral behavior on my behalf."

"And why's that?"

"No one listens to people their own age."

"Well, I'm sure as hell not doing this alone. Listen, just do that flat little stare you do and rattle off a bunch of scary facts about what happens when you take it and get hooked. I'll deal with the intimidation."

Castiel still looks unsure of himself. "They do not teach us public speaking at the OBIT, Dean."

Dean snorts. "Buck up, kiddo. If worse comes to worse, just glare a lot and say, 'There's no such thing as hot water in jail,' or something. Look, I didn't work this hard to set up damn PowerPoint to go solo."

Slowly, Castiel eases himself out of his chair and walks up to Dean, standing there with his arms dangling at his sides and an uneasy expression on his face.

"You can do better," Dean says, and underneath his gaze, he watches as Castiel checks himself and then straightens immaculately and places his hands military-style behind his back. Dean lifts his eyebrows. "There you go. Just, hey, obviously you can't mention that it comes from angels, yeah?"

"Because no one knows where it comes from," Castiel confirms. "Isn't that strange? An entire population simply accepting a drug without having any idea where it's actually from."

"Same thing with McDonalds, yet you don't see anyone complaining about where their McNuggets are from. Except. You know. The people that complain about where their McNuggets are from, but I generally ignore those people as a rule."

"How were you given clearance?" Castiel wants to know. "Why are you allowed to know?"

"I found out," says Dean shortly. "By accident. Then certain circumstances being what they were, they needed someone to fill a position in the Supernatural Division and I got transferred in. And now I know more than I ever wanted about angels and cursed objects and humans attempting botched spells and it turns out that it's all complete shit. But it's my job and I'm damned good at it. End of story."

"An entire species," comments Castiel, looking distantly off. "An entire species being murdered and used, and no one even knows about it."

Ten minutes pass and then slowly the kids start filing in, one by one, all of them with either a record of some sort or just incredibly suspicious parents who signed them up for FBI Scare Tactics 101. Normally this wouldn't be FBI jurisdiction at all, but well - it's a federal case, and it's overtaking the entire nation. If it means a few less kids get sucked in, then Dean'll suffer through it.

"So you're here because you screwed up at some point," begins Dean, his expression hardened and stolid as he stares out over the sea of brooding faces. "Thought you'd smoke some weed, have a good time with your friends, maybe even sell a little to get extra money on the side. Thought it was a good idea. And then someone found out, and here you are."

Not one single face looks interested.

"Or maybe not. Maybe you went further than pot and tried something a bit more on the wild side - whatever you did, you're not scared to do it again and you don't care what some shit FBI agent has to say to you."

The minor curse word gets a flicker of attention, most likely from the ones whose parents sent them in preemptively. But Dean's not done.

"So some or all of you have heard about Grace and you think you're the coolest sons of bitches to walk the planet, wanna try it out, give it a go, yeah?" Only one in the back is not staring at Dean and Dean wants to take him out back and show him the rows of corpses that exist due to Grace but he can't. "But do any of you really have any idea what it actually is? My partner -" he gestures to Castiel and sees more than a hint of surprise and hears one or two snickers, "is here to share the facts. Agent Novak."

"Agent Winchester," replies Castiel, and thank God he didn't call him 'Dean' just then. "Thank you." He stares out at the crowd and doesn't move.

Doesn't speak. Dean starts counting. It is the longest minute (all right, he loses count and doesn't get the exact second, whatever) of his life and he starts smirking slightly as the kids all start squirming. It is, strangely, the perfect thing Cas could have done and it is most likely just him panicking over public speaking.

"The facts are," Castiel finally begins, "is that 1 out of every 50 Grace users die, either from overdosing or the feelings of overconfidence that emerge from taking the drug." He pauses, looking at each member of the crowd, and then slowly smiles; it's unsettling, even to Dean. "The drug causes feelings of euphoria greater than any other drug. The effects can last anywhere from six hours to a full forty-eight hour period, longer than any other drug. It is the most powerful drug to the enter the drug market, and it's been on climb since its introduction in 1996."

Dean frowns. _Not exactly persuading them away from it right now, Cas._

"You may think this is all the more reason for you to try it. But the higher the climb," says Castiel, "the greater the fall. And the fall from Grace is the strongest ever. Withdrawal symptoms include paranoia, open sores all over the body, a loss of sexual drive," this one seems to garner the most uncomfortable looks, "the failure of major organs throughout the entire body, and," another terrible smile, "of course, death itself."

He looks to Dean who lifts his eyebrows and then flicks on the PowerPoint, where there is a man standing at the edge of a building with his arms flown back.

"Users describe a power of flight," describes Castiel, "which has led to hundreds of deaths by jumping this past year alone. It is powerful, all-consuming, and incredibly addictive. There has only been one person who has overdosed and been saved from death," he pauses, looking straight at the kid in the back who is finally paying attention, "and they described the feeling as being light on fire. Burned from the inside out."

He looks older in that moment than he has so far, and Dean studies him from his side of the classroom, pressing his lips together as Castiel rattles out facts without even seeming to think about them. He is, yes, an expert in the drug, and Dean thinks about all the hours this boy must have spent locked in a cell to garner such quick thinking.

"Saying yes to Grace," finishes Castiel, his low voice solemn, "is like tying yourself to a comet. It is like selling your soul. If you think that is worth a six hour euphoria…" He looks over at Dean and there is something in his eyes there that Dean cannot decipher. "There is so much more that you could have. So much more that you can do." He looks back. "Agent Winchester."

Dean clears his throat and steps back up to the middle of the room, back to being bad cop. "Thank you, Agent Novak. Right. Now listen up."

It's a long day.

* * *

It takes Dean a while to realize it but finally he sees it - finally he see how pitifully happy Cas is when he's touched, how seems to arch into each little contact like a cat starved for attention and how he always look a little more lost when its gone again.

Starved.

That's what Cas is. Achingly hungry, with bony wrists and the half-wild look about him, like he doesn't understand how to be domesticated. Always on the verge of attack.

Dean discovers it completely by accident. He's not being a pervert - no, he's locked those thoughts down after his one shameful shower - no, he's doing nothing that he wouldn't have done for anyone else, nothing to be ashamed of, just a hand on Cas's shoulder when he's directing him to look at something, a brush of hands when he's passing Cas something. They are simple little touches, meaning absolutely nothing to Dean - and, he quickly realizes, absolutely everything to Cas.

He tells Sam about it over the phone while he's sitting in the Impala, waiting for Castiel to get finished packing.

"You know how they did that experiment with the monkeys? Where, like, they put baby monkeys near fake mother monkeys and one had food and the other had cloth and the baby monkeys would go to the cloth-covered mothers? I think they called it contact comfort or something. Anyway, it proved that contact wasn't just something that people - or monkeys, or whatever - wanted, but something that they needed, just as much as food."

He pauses, thinking of all the little ways Cas moves about him now. They've only been working together for only two weeks now but already, it's like Cas follows him about - seeks him out, waits for his approval on things. Waits to be noticed and touched, like a goddamn dog.

"I keep thinking about what he told me, about that fucking isolation room they'd stick him in if he stepped out of line. It makes me think no one's ever actually touched the kid - hell, who knows if he's ever been hugged, you know? He's certainly never had a parent figure in his life. You and I didn't have the best, but damn…"

He'd tested it out, the other day. Leant over his shoulder when he was reading something and carefully rested his hand on his shoulder. Slowly, while Castiel was explaining something about the spread of Grace in Asia, he'd slid his hand over until it was resting at the back of Castiel's neck and from there he'd moved his thumb back and forth, soothing over the small hairs there.

The change in Castiel had been immediate and startling. His shoulders had lost some of their perfect posture; his voice had deepened slightly; his head had tilted back towards Dean. He'd talked slower and when he'd glanced back, his eyes had seemed softer.

"It's insane," Dean tells Sam now. "I mean, imagined if you'd gone your entire life without a nice touch. How do you not go completely insane? I guess I should be more worried about it, like what if he's somehow mentally messed up from it but - shit, he's coming, okay, I'll talk to you later, Sammy. Talk to you later."

He snaps the phone shut just as Castiel gets in the car and casually sets the phone down, turning the key in the engine and feeling the car rumble to life underneath him.

"Who was that?" Cas asks.

Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye and then starts to back up. "No one," he lies. And if his hand brushes Castiel's when he puts the gear shift from reverse to drive, it's a total accident.


	4. Chapter 4

**please note: **Angels in this universe are clearly different than angels in the Supernatural universe. Not biblical for one, and no wings either. Just Grace, though that still comes with its own power. But you'll find out more about that later.

**Chapter Four**

"Heads up," says Charlie as soon as Dean answers the phone during the start of his and Cas's third week working together. "Got a few bodies they think might be dealers."

"Where at?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder as he merges lanes and feels Castiel's reproving stare on his face. Cas is apparently a stickler for rules and frowns deeply every time he so much as changes lanes without a turn signal on 500 yards beforehand. Sometimes he doesn't wear a seatbelt and he can feel the disapproval practically radiating off the kid. It's become a bit of a game, really, to see how many glares he can get in one continuous drive. "Please don't say headquarters."

"Of course not headquarters," says Charlie disparagingly and then pauses. "The morgue right next to headquarters. Naturally."

"You," says Dean, "are a shitty handler."

She laughs, the sound warm and close to his ear. Knowing her, she's probably fist-bumping her ridiculous Harry Potter bobbleheads right about now. "I think it's cute that you pretend you're successful because of what _you_ do. Downright adorable."

"You're asking me to drive all the way to D.C. just to check out some bodies that _might_ be dealers?"

"Got anything better to do?"

"Loads," scoffs Dean. "Just what exactly are you hoping I'll gain from seeing these cold ones anyway? There won't be anything on them."

"Well, then, don't come."

"You don't want me to come?" demands Dean. "You called me just to give me pointless information and then tell me not to come? Who the hell does that?"

"Well, you're the expert," and now he realizes that her voice has a sarcastic little lilt to it. "You're the one that's solved _hundreds_ of cases, so if _you _think there's nothing that can gained from looking at the potential corpses of dealers then it _must _be pointless. So don't come."

"You're baiting me," he says.

"I would never."

"If I drive all the way to D.C. and gain absolutely nothing from it, what then?"

"Then at least I can meet your new kid and tell him horrible stories about his partner, hopefully scarring him for life."

"Too late," Dean mutters, thinking of the nightmares that still wake him up every night.

"You're right," Charlie agrees. "Your face would have done the trick ages ago."

"Remind me not to speak to you or visit you once I'm in D.C."

"Oh, good, so you're coming? Great! Stop at that taco place you know I love and get me some hard tacos. _Muchas gracias_."

"The taco place is out of my way," says Dean, and then when she doesn't reply, repeats it louder: "Charlie, the taco place is _out of my way!_" There's a click and then the dial tone and he clicks his phone off with a frustrated growl. "Damn it."

"That's good," comments Castiel, from beside him. "I've never had tacos before."

"You – what? You've never had – what? How have you _lived_?" asks Dean. He is surrounded by complete freaks on all sides.

"On an optimal nutritional diet," there is confusion in Castiel's voice. "We've gone over this before, Dean."

"I was trying to forget," mutters Dean and then sighs and leans his head back, looking at the highway through half-shut eyes. "This is going to be such a long drive."

"We could play another game," offers Castiel hopefully.

"No, thanks."

Silence. Dean purses his lips, reaches up. Scratches the side of his neck. He's getting scruffy again, needs to shave. God. He's going to. Shit. "I'm not playing I Spy."

"All right," agrees Castiel, staring out the window.

"You don't know any other games."

"No," he says.

Why does he have to have such strong moral obligations when it comes to sad children who haven't experienced dumb shit? And he wonders if maybe that's what's so pitiful about it, that he and everyone else in the world considers car games such idiotic things to know how to do and here is this kid that is pathetically eager to play one. "Twenty Questions," he finally says.

"How do you play?" A glance over reveals Castiel is trying to suppress a smile.

Dean sighs. "I pick an object and you have to guess it within twenty questions, asking different things to try and narrow it down."

Castiel says, "I will succeed at this one," and sounds absolutely positive about it, the little shit.

"All right," says Dean after a moment. "I've got it, go ahead."

"Is it a revolver?"

"What?" asks Dean. "No. Stop. That's not how you play. You're – come on."

"What?" He looks genuinely confused, so legitimately lost that Dean simply has to give in and laugh. Now there's a layer of hurt as well. "There are several things that appear in your life with frequency and it seems natural that you would then pick something that you are intimately familiar with. Is it the Impala? A hotel room? Credit card fraud?"

"What the hell is my connection to credit card fraud?"

"It's a crime. You are a special agent." Castiel blinks. "Dean, these are logical guesses."

"But – you're not supposed to guess until you have some sort of idea of what it is. Look. Okay. Here, _you _choose the object this time." Rain begins to patter against the windshield and Dean flicks on the windshield wipers.

"Lights on," Castiel reminds him.

"I liked you better when we first met," Dean tells him, and then, after flicking his lights on, prompts, "Have you gotten it in your mind yet?"

"Yes. You may begin."

"All right, is it alive?"

"No." Castiel's brow furrows.

"Can you eat it?"

"No."

"Is it something you can wear?"

"No."

"Is it… a mineral?"

"No. That's four questions already. Dean, are you sure you're doing this correctly?"

"Are _you _doing it correctly?" Dean asks, frustrated. "What the hell did you choose?"

Castiel frowns. "Does that count as one of your questions?"

"Cas, at this point I'm beginning to think you didn't choose _anything_ - just please answer the damn question."

Castiel shifts in his seat. "The moment in time in which every human accepts their eventual demise and begins to wonder just what their purpose on this earth is in the finite amount of time left amounted them."

"Mid-life crisis. You chose a mid-life crisis as your object to play Twenty Questions with." Dean drags a hand over the bottom half of his face, wondering if this is a sign that he's about to start his own mid-life crisis.

"Were there limits to what I could choose?" asks Castiel seriously.

"Well – no – but – I mean –" The rain starts to pour down heavier. "But you can't choose a _concept_, I mean. I guess you could. But. No one ever does."

"Oh." A pause. "So does that mean I win?"

"_No_," says Dean immediately, hotly. "I would have guessed it eventually. All right, go again. And this time – no concepts. Tangible objects only."

Dean loses that round too – and then Castiel loses the next one, and finally Dean wins, and then Castiel wins, and then neither one of them can think up another object. They look at license plates – Dean chooses Kansas for loyalty's sake and loses spectacularly and Castiel chooses the state they're currently in and is incredibly smug – and this goes on for a while before Castiel decides that Dean shouldn't be taking his eyes off the road so much to look at license plates. Then they place First Letter, Last Letter until Castiel starts using the scientific names of plants and Dean gets annoyed and tells him that's cheating. Then it's back to I Spy for a little while until Dean suggests Truth or Dare which is incredibly difficult considering he's driving and he always chooses dare.

"I dare you to go the speed limit," says Castiel the first time. The second time it's, "I dare you to always use your blinkers," and the third time it's, "I dare you to only eat fruits and vegetables for the next week," until Dean finally yells at him for only daring him healthy choices.

"I thought you say I could dare anything I want," protests Castiel with, as usual, complete and total bewilderment.

"Yes, but you're supposed to do _unhealthy_ dares, like eat a grasshopper or make out with the person sitting across from you," Dean explains in a God-help-me kind of way.

Castiel is at a loss. "But there's no insects in here. And I'm the only person you could possibly make out with."

There's a beat of awkward silence, filled only with the pounding rain that has followed them for the past two hours.

"Truth or Dare," says Dean.

"Truth."

"What are you afraid of?"

"Knowing no one," comes the immediate answer.

Dean doesn't know what to say to this. "You know tons of people. Like me, for example."

"No – _knowing _no one," says Castiel, looking out the window. "Not just people's names or their body weight and height. Not even their blood type or income level. But. Knowing people. Like what they like to eat when they're upset or thinking of home. I want to know those things, because those are things that matter at the funeral when you're speaking."

"Been to a lot of funerals, Cas?" asks Dean without thinking.

Castiel doesn't answer for a long while. Finally, he says, "It's not your turn."

"Just a question," says Dean. He glances over and then away again. "Well then, what do you like to eat when you're upset?"

"I – don't know," says Castiel, and this seems to bother him even more than asking how many funerals he's been too. "Not your turn," he repeats, and the game is over.

Finally – finally – they're pulling into the crowded limits of Washington, D.C., both males twitching restlessly after the seven hour nonstop drive. Traffic is a pain in the ass, but the rain seems to have run its course at last and when they get out of the Impala at the FBI headquarters, the sky is a bleary gray, an endless blanket that oppresses and depresses.

They scan their badges wordlessly at the door and Dean leads the way through a series of stairwells and corridors until they're finally at the opening to the morgue, pausing before the door as both of them stretch.

"Ever seen a dead body?" Dean asks, putting a hand on his back and then twisting. He hears a popping noise and feels a hint of relief. God, he shouldn't be driving so much at his age. It's more than a little unhealthy.

"OBIT subjects used donated corpses all the time," says Castiel, but doesn't say for what and Dean doesn't ask. He's done enough investigating into the teenager's background and it's time he simply accepts that there is always going to be more that he doesn't know. Doesn't want to know, either, for that matter.

Dean pushes open the door, strolling idly in with his hands thrust in his pockets as he looks around. "Hello? Anyone home?" He glances back at Castiel and shrugs when no one responds, walking further into the pristine morgue and thoughtfully heading towards the wall of silver handles.

"Wait, you can't just go looking at whatever dead bodies you want!" says Castiel from the doorway where he stands, frozen.

"Why not?" asks Dean and casually pulls open one drawer and looks down into the face of a impressively dead black woman. He stares into her cold face for a moment before sliding it shut and pulling open another, this time a caucasian male.

"Because –"

"Excuse me, do you have any authority here?" interrupts a different voice, a young man with glasses and a starch lab coat on, standing at a door Dean hadn't spotted before.

"Ah," says Dean, sliding the dead man back into his case and straightening. "Right. I'm Agent Winchester – this is my partner, Agent Novak," there it is, as always, the confused examination of _Who is this kid and how is he working for the FBI? _but Dean goes on anyway, "My handler Charlie Bradbury arranged for the viewing of several bodies that are relevant to our case?"

The man pushes his glasses up and frowns. "Bradbury, you said? You're too late."

"Too late?" echoes Dean and then shares a look with Castiel. "What do you mean too late, she told us about it this morning and we drove nonstop to get here."

"I got another call about three hours after the first one telling me to cremate the bodies as soon as possible," he says. "They're already gone."

"_Gone_?" asks Castiel.

"How can that be possible?" says Dean, stepping forward. He feels a sick sense of dread in his stomach. "Who authorized that? And I'd like your name while you're at it."

"It's Addams, sir," says the young man, looking more unsure with each passing second. "Tyler Addams. It's – they said they were under clearance with the FBI. They listed the correct names, correct identification numbers, everything, so I thought…." He trails off.

"And you didn't think," says Dean through gritted teeth, "to _check_ first before you _decimated _evidence that pertains to a federal case? That just _maybe _there might be people smart enough to call with enough motive for not wanting feds looking at these bodies? That there's a slight chance that these people might just try and take advantage of idiots in charge like yourself?"

"Dean," says Castiel quietly. "It's not his fault."

"God _damn _it," says Dean, throwing a hand up to run over his hair agitatedly. "Charlie was right. There was something about those bodies that held important information and they knew it, that's why they got rid of them. We _had something_."

Addams looks terrified. "I – I really didn't –"

"It's okay," Castiel tells him and Dean whirls on him, about to yell at him too when he realizes that Castiel knows something. He has to, because there's no other way he would be standing there like that, utterly calm and placid.

"What is it?" Dean asks in a low voice.

"How did they tell you to remove the bodies, Tyler?" asks Castiel, sliding his hands into his trenchcoat.

"You know something," Dean insists. "What is it? Tell me."

"They – they listed names. Three of them."

"And," says Castiel calmly, "how many names did Agent Bradbury tell you to save for us?"

Something dawns in Addams' eyes. "She gave me four."

"How did you know?" Dean demands, grabbing Castiel's shoulder. He has done nothing for the case in the past three and a half weeks except lose at car games and attack a kid selling marijuana – and yeah, he'd done all right with the kids in the classroom, nothing too special, but up till now Dean's still wondered why he was thrown into the field as such an age, what qualified him over any other older agent. Now, it makes him think.

"The body you looked at without permission," he says, and he's small but his eyes are sharp and there's something cunning lying underneath the messy hair and rumpled trench coat. "The first one. There's Enochian tattooed on the inside of her wrist."

"Enochian. That's their –" He glances at Addams as though remembering that he might not be allowed to share certain information. "Writing? You could tell from all the way over there?" marvels Dean, moving to pull open the drawer again and leaning in and squinting at one wrist and then the other. "You sure it's not just Chinese for 'Hope' or something?"

"It's definitely Enochian," he says, coming up behind Dean and nodding.

"And what does it mean?"

"It means," says Castiel, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes, a thoughtful look coming over his face, "to burn."

* * *

"Incredibly suspicious," says Charlie as soon as she's heard the situation.

"No doubt it's the work of someone related to the case," says Dean and she makes an agreeing noise over the phone. "They must not have known there were four bodies instead of three, thank God. Sloppy work. And before you ask, we checked – the line leads back to nowhere, dead end. I would have gratefully accepted three cremated bodies for one working phone line, but that's just my shit luck."

"Find anything useful from Dead Body Number Four?"

"Enochian."

Charlie makes an interested noise and then something else – chewing noises. "That's a good sign at least. Definitely angel related."

"Are you – eating?" asks Dean, wrinkling his nose. He's currently standing outside the morgue and eating noises are not exactly the sounds he want to hear right about now.

"Chinese food." He can picture her grin and he's about to ask her to save him some before –

"Wait, what the _hell_, Charlie? I saved you tacos! From the place you fucking asked me to get you some from! What was the point of me driving out of my way to get them if you were just planning on eating damn Chinese food?"

"Hey, who says I can't eat both?" she asks, still chewing. "Besides, you were taking way too long. Far longer than I estimated."

"Kid wants me to drive the speed limit," says Dean in a disgruntled voice.

"Aw, that's so sweet that he's got you tamed so easily," she teases.

"Shut it."

"So are you going to tell me Dead Body Number Four's name or am I going to have to just call it DBNF from now on?"

"File says her name is Fiona Harris, but that could just as easily be a lie."

"Most likely is."

"Either way, I'm sure you'll get to the bottom of it. You being Charlie Bradbury and all."

"Oh, gosh, you're going to make me blush," says Charlie, and eats something crunchy. "Are you and the kid going to come in to the office? It's been a while since I've seen your ugly mug around here; I think I saw a cockroach sitting in your desk chair the other day."

"Did you kill it? And you're eventually going to have to stop calling him 'the kid,' you know. He is technically an agent, after all."

"I named it Dean Jr, actually. So far it's doing a better job of your job than you are. And I'll call him whatever I want – I'm Charlie Bradbury, remember? That comes with some sort of benefits, I'm assuming, and calling people by generic age-related titles should be one of them."

"This coming from the one who let three bodies get cremated on her watch. Nice going, Charlie Bradbury."

"Shut up and get your ass over here," she orders and the phone goes dead.

Rolling his eyes, Dean sticks his head back in the morgue, frowning when he sees Addams and Castiel deep in conversation. His frown deepens when he sees Addams write something down on a scrap piece of paper and thrust it at Castiel, looking awkward and uncomfortable – but in an entirely different way than he had earlier with Dean shouting at him.

"Castiel!" barks Dean, holding the door open and jerking his head towards the hallway. "Stop holding us up – we're on a case, if you don't remember."

"Sorry, Dean," says Castiel, nodding goodbye to the morgue worker and obediently walking through the door. He doesn't seem to notice the way Addams calls, "Bye, Castiel!" after him or the hopeful stare aimed at his back – or the way Dean sneers at Addams long enough for the young man to notice and duck away. "Where are we going now? Upstairs?"

Dean falls into line with Cas and shoots him a questioning look. "What's upstairs?"

"Well… I'm assuming your headquarters," says Castiel. "Since this is the FBI headquarters, right?"

"This is the morgue - headquarters are next door, but my department – which is technically listed as drug crimes but is confidentially focused on the paranormal and supernatural – is in a different building, in order to remain undetected. A lot like the OBIT, actually."

"What did Charlie say about the bodies?"

"She didn't seem too concerned – but then, she hardly ever is," says Dean, a mildly irritated expression crossing his face. Talented she may be, but organized she is not – which, well, neither is he, but it's a lot more difficult to slack off when your handler is doing the exact same. It's a miracle they break any cases open, actually.

"Uh, hey," says Dean, once they're both out in the open air and almost to the car. "What did that guy hand you?"

"Oh, Tyler?" asks Castiel, bemused. "His phone number. He told me it was so that if he got another questionable order he could check with me first to make sure it was what we wanted."

Dean makes a surly face as he slides into the driver seat. "Well, why didn't he give _me _his number? Aren't I the lead agent on this case?"

"I can give it to you, if you'd like," says Castiel complacently, buckling in his seat belt. "Seat belt."

"Yeah, yeah," mutters Dean, but there's something in his chest that loosens at the obvious disinterest Castiel is showing towards the morgue worker. "Are you sure he wasn't trying to – you know – uh – hook up with you?"

"Hook up with me?" repeats Castiel doubtfully.

"You know. Like he wanted to ask you out maybe. That's sometimes what people imply when they give other people their numbers."

"Oh. Oh, Dean, no. It was for work." And he nods, as if he's solved a great mystery. "You still haven't put your seat belt on."

"Concerned about my safety, Cas?" Abruptly, Dean's grinning, and he moves to pull his seat belt down across his chest without further prompting. "Afraid something will happen to me?"

Castiel looks dubious. "Of course, Dean. You are the leader of this mission, after all."

It is with a bit of a smug feeling that Dean drives the rest of the way to the building holding his office, and he chooses feel-good music for the ride (Asia, of course), with his fingers tapping against the steering wheel the entire way.

* * *

**a/n: **Reviews might make me feel a bit better about failing Astronomy, which I spent three hours doing tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Castiel can't deny it; he's apprehensive as they exit the Impala once again, this time using a different badge to get into the dark and gloomy building and getting a full-body search once inside by a churlish security guard. He gives them both clearance with a wave of a hand and then it's inside a shady elevator, complete with flickering lights, and they're standing side by side waiting to reach the top floor.

"Don't feel overwhelmed," Dean mentions, right as they hit the top floor. "She can be a bit. Much. But you'll get used to it, I promise."

The doors slide open before Castiel can say anything in response to this - not that he would have any sort of idea of _what _to say to that - and they step out into a dreary, gray office setting, complete with wilting potted plant in the corner.

And then - there she is, popping up with bright red hair and a smile like a million watts, instantly bringing the entire office to a different dimension. "Dean!" A hug, Dean's arms going all the way around her as a grin comes to his face. "My hero! My agent! Alive and in my arms at last!"

Castiel stands off to the side, awkwardly pressing his arms in at his sides, and feels a pang of something. It's off-setting, this feeling, whatever it is, and he realizes he's never felt it before. It feels… cold. Like ice settling down deep in the pit of his stomach. Like he is being left out of something dearly important to him.

He wonders if this feeling occurs to everyone. Then he wonders if maybe it normally occurs to people much earlier in life - if maybe he is just now feeling it because he is just now a part of something important to him. It was always assumed before that he would stand quietly behind those who really mattered, that he would be nothing more than a statistic on a sheet or a body to be poked and prodded.

When did that change?

Clearly it has, if he can now feel - this. This aching deep inside him, a strange yearning.

And there is something else there too. A hot burning, a strange possessiveness. The way Dean's arms go around Charlie speaks of a familiarity he will never feel with Castiel. As much as he might casually touch Castiel's shoulder or brush his fingers against Castiel's, it will never be this full-body contact.

And then Charlie pulls abruptly away from Dean and stares at him, her grin morphing into something nicer. "You must be Castiel," she says, and then moves forward and envelops him in a hug.

He lets out a strange little huff of surprise and it takes him a second to catch up with the new developments. There's nothing he can do but just stand there stiffly as she - hugs him? She smells of something strong and clean; when she pulls away, her eyes are kind. "Dean has told me so much about you," she says.

"You're his handler," says Castiel, for lack of anything better to say, and steps away, heat flooding his face. "Yes. Ah. I am certain he would not be able to manage without you."

"Hey!" says Dean from behind her, affronted. "Let's get one thing clear: you need me _far _more than I need you."

"Two words," says Charlie to him, turning around and holding up two fingers. She puts one down with each word: "Desk. Canine."

Dean immediately turns red. "You promised never to bring that up again!" he hisses, stepping forward and lowering his voice as though there is anyone other to hear other than Castiel.

Except he probably doesn't want Castiel to find out about whatever it is. The sinking feeling returns. He should leave. This is clearly private. He is unwanted.

"Well, I lied," says Charlie, sounding supremely smug. "Now are you going to stop acting like you've survived this long without my help or what?"

Dean gives her a sullen stare.

"That's what I thought." And then she turns back around as if to look to Castiel - but Castiel has already made his move and is now standing in the far corner next to the window, hands tucked in his jacket and shoulders rounded. "Oh," she says, sounding surprised. "We were just - right, we should get down to business. Castiel, would you like to come with us to my office to discuss the bodies?"

"That's all right," says Castiel politely. The blood in his veins holds a slow sludge of self-pity. "Agent Winchester is the leader of this case; I'm sure the two of you will want to discuss it in private."

"Oh," says Charlie again and then glances over at Dean, who shrugs. She glances back. "You're sure? I'll bet you -"

"I'm sure," interrupts Castiel. Perhaps he should feel sorry for interrupting her but then again, he's only doing it to save her the hassle of trying to include him - so in the end, he's really just saving her time. "I'll wait here."

"I -" begins Charlie, but Dean tugs on her arm and then shakes his head minutely when she looks back at him. They seem to share something between them without saying a word - Castiel looks away - and then she sighs and relents. "We'll be back soon," she tells him. "And then," forced enthusiasm, "tacos!"

The office they head to is close by and soon their footsteps are gone, replaced instead by distant voices and the sound of chairs scraping out. Castiel stands near the window, staring out at the endlessly gray sky.

He counts down from ten.

A cloud of birds erupt up from a building, all flying upward in one motion, all of them seemingly connected by some invisible web of strings, each pulling and pushing them together as the swarm of black birds dart up and then swerve to the side, flying into the wind and disappearing from sight.

He counts up to a hundred.

And then hears his name from down the hall. Castiel glances around, stares back out the window, stares down the hallway, looks down at his shoes which are suddenly wanting to go in that direction desperately.

_It's none of your business_, he tells himself, and imagines the Isolation cell, with its white walls and depthless silence, the way his thoughts break free from his mind and go swimming off in too many directions. But he hasn't been near the Isolation cell in weeks now and even if Dean were to catch him eavesdropping, he can't imagine Dean would ever do that to him. Not after that first night, when Dean barely knew him and still held him.

"Don't do it," he tells himself, and then reaches up and smooths his hair and moves stealthily towards the hallway where Dean's voice is filtering through. They've left the door open - maybe thinking he would be too well-trained to even think about coming near it - and for a moment he marvels over his own daring before pressing his back against the wall next to the cracked door and slowing his breath, his heartbeat a constant throbbing in his ears.

" - tell me he was that small, Dean," Charlie's saying, sounding reproving. "Or nervous. Or - hell, what, you've never thought to _hug _him before? It's like he hardly knew what to do, he just stood there!"

"Look, it's not my job to babysit him," says Dean in a low voice, sounding as though he's said this before, one too many times. "I just don't think he was ready to be put on the field yet, Charlie, but there's no way I can say that to the OBIT without making them think he's incompetent somehow. And I'm not going to get him in trouble that way."

"What makes you think he's not ready?"

"He's _seventeen_, for one."

"I was twelve when I broke my first law, Dean."

"It's different."

"Other than age, what else do you have for thinking that?"

"Okay, look, Charlie," and now he sounds frustrated, probably raking his hand through his hair like he has a tendency to do. "It's been almost a month, and what does he have to show for it? The case hasn't progressed any further - and yeah, before you say anything, I haven't been doing shit this past month either, but at least I have a track record of being successful. What the hell does he have?"

"Fighting skills?" asks Charlie.

"He's - what, taken down a fifteen-year-old who's probably never fought a day in his life? Very impressive."

Another new feeling emerges - this one is defensive, snarling, this one wants to prove its own worth and do something very, very stupid in order to show that _yes, I can do it, see, you didn't think so but you were wrong, so very wrong _- and before Castiel can stop himself, he does what is perhaps the first true age-appropriate thing he's ever done and steps through the door with a stony expression, chin lifted high. "I can fight," he says, startling both his elders as they jerk towards the door. "I can. And I can prove it. I'm the top in my level and I deserve a chance - you think they put me in this position as some sort of accident, but it wasn't. I deserve to work on this case just as much as you do - and if you don't think I can fight, then try it. Fight against me in a hand to hand combat and if you win," his voice tightens, his eyes narrow, "I'll turn myself into the OBIT myself."

"You're not turning yourself in anywhere," says Dean sharply, getting up from where he was perched against the desk. "And what the hell were you doing listening in?"

Charlie says, "Dean," and stands up too.

"Fight me," says Castiel again. "Right now."

"Right now," scoffs Dean, looking to Charlie as though searching for someone to agree with the absurdity of the situation.

But Charlie looks thoughtful. "There is a training gym in the basement here, you know," she tells him.

"Charlie, this is ridiculous," protests Dean. "He's acting like - a _child_. I don't need you to prove anything," he says, directing this to Castiel. "I just want you to do your fucking job and listens to my orders, that's all. We're talking about the case -"

"No," says Charlie seriously. "It can wait. Dean, I think you should fight him."

"_Charlie_," says Dean in clear disbelief. He glances at Castiel and then steps closer to her, lowering his voice but still loud enough to be heard across the room: "Look at his size. I'll crush him. The last thing he needs is. You know."

"What, you're worried about his _self-esteem_?" challenges Charlie, not bothering to keep her voice down.

"Worry about your own self-esteem," says Castiel in a low voice. "Just one match. That's all I'm asking for."

Dean looks between Charlie and Castiel, obviously searching for some sort of amity in either one of them and scowls when he receives none from either. "Fine. But you -" he points to Charlie, "owe me a case of Budlight when I win, and you, you little shit -" pointing to Castiel, "are going to keep your mouth shut and stop listening in on conversations. And you're going to follow every order I give you, no questions asked."

"We'll see," is all Castiel says.

"Can we get my tacos first?" asks Charlie. She seems to have loosened up somehow in the past five minutes since Castiel walked in on them and looks as easygoing as ever, reaching up to put her long red hair in a ponytail. "I'm starving."

"Chinese food," Dean says, for some reason Castiel can't understand.

"Tacos," she replies.

He gives a flat look.

It is nearly ten minutes before they get to the training arena - five to get the tacos from Dean's car, and even though they're cold by now, Charlie accepts them eagerly - and then five more as they follow Charlie around getting lost, and then they're finally there, the only ones in the room on this dreary Tuesday afternoon.

Dean says, "Change your mind," wearily.

"No."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Then," says Castiel, looking him dead in the eye, "you forfeit."

"We never did agree on what Castiel gets if he wins," Charlie butts in, chewing noisily.

"That's because he's not _going _to win," says Dean, exasperated.

"Castiel?" Charlie prompts.

"I. I don't know." He looks out at the padded arena in the middle of the room and then shrugs out of his jacket, folding it neatly and placing it on the floor. Slowly, he looks at Dean and begins rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down, moving steadily until both arms are rolled up to his elbow and then he says, "I want nothing more than the respect due to me. Nothing more, nothing less."

"_Respect_," says Dean scathingly, as if the concept is beneath him. "What?" he asks, as Charlie looks at him. "I give him respect! I do! I mean - as much respect as a seventeen year old really needs."

"Proving his point," Charlie says archly.

"Oh, shut up."

"Are you ready?" Castiel asks.

Dean looks like he wants to ask a third time if Castiel's sure he wants to do this, but either he feels outnumbered or he finally sees the look of steel determination in Castiel's eyes because he merely sighs loudly and pulls off his jacket, letting it fall to a heap on the floor and pushing up his sleeves haphazardly. "Fine. Let's get this over with."

It's silent in the room as they both head to the middle arena, except for the solo sound of Charlie's chewing. They both duck under the cut off ropes simultaneously and then stand across from each other in the circle, staring at each other.

"No scratching. No kicks to the groin. No eye gouging," Dean says firmly. "Winner is declared as soon as one surrenders or it's obvious it could have been a kill blow. Charlie's referee. _Pay attention,_" he says over his shoulder.

"What could possibly distract me?" she asks through a mouthful of taco and Dean sighs again and looks back at Castiel.

"This is utter bullshit," he mutters.

"Call it, Charlie," calls Castiel and settles into a fighting stance, legs apart with his left foot behind his right, knees slightly bent, arms held ready. His eyes are narrowed, focused, zeroed in on every little twitch of Dean's as he shakes himself out. _Calm_. He reminds himself. _Concentrate. _

Deep breath, in. Steady breath, out.

He will not lose. He is mind, body, soul connected - he has trained for years in Krav Maga and he may be small, but he has learned that there are more important components of fighting. Being underestimated, for one, is a large factor of it.

And Dean is so dearly, dearly underestimating him.

He waits, tense, and let his eyes travel the length of Dean's body before landing on his eyes - there is deep concentration echoed there, along with a hardness that speaks of past victories won the hard way.

Castiel narrows his eyes in concentration, Dean only looking frustrated and bored as Charlie calls out, "Begin," and they're off.

Dean moves at once, just like Castiel knew he would, using his brute strength and height advantage to come straight at Castiel, cunning be damned.

But Castiel has spent years being the smaller of his opponents, years of learning to win otherwise, and he is not about to be knocked out in the first five seconds.

It is a precise way of fighting - smooth and controlled, with limited movement and a trained eye. He predicts each and every aggressive move Dean makes, and within seconds Dean is panting and Castiel is standing calm, with even breathing, barely fazed. The older man come at him again and he ducks around Dean, moving swiftly, and waits for Dean to turn towards him before moving again, just out of reach. It continues like that - Dean throwing out a punch, Castiel sweeping away, until finally Dean reaches out both hands and grabs fistfuls of shirt and heaves him forward.

"Got you," grins Dean.

"Think again," says Castiel.

He reached his right hand across Dean's body, snaking under Dean's left arm, and gripped his elbow, jerking it and moving his body at the same time so that he twists around Dean and ends up behind him - continuing his motion and sending his left arm up to Dean's face, aiming for the nose and instead getting a handful of hair, which he pulls back as he moves out of the way a second time and sends Dean stumbling back.

"Oi! No hair pulling!" calls Charlie from outside the arena.

Dean growls and swipes forward again and they're off together - ducking and twisting and spinning and circling out.

"Stop - avoiding me - goddammit," spits Dean.

He throws a punch - and Cas ducks underneath it, placing his foot behind Dean's, and comes up with his arms straight, grabbing Dean by the neck and then spinning him around the foot behind his. It's one fluid moment and then Dean grunts as he lands on his back, unable to move as he reorients himself - and in that moment, Castiel settles down on top of him, forearm pressing into his throat and knees flattening out on either side of him.

"Move, and I'll choke you," he says.

Dean shifts, expression calculating, but Castiel only presses down harder and hears Dean wheeze for air with dark satisfaction.

"Surrender," he orders.

"No," says Dean, and thrashes underneath him. He may be bigger than Castiel, but he's helpless on the ground and Castiel's thighs are iron-locked around him, the muscles in his forearm bunching together in concentration.

For a moment something flashes through Castiel, hot and tense, different from the adrenaline of the fight in an entirely way - he notices everything about Dean in that moment, the way his body feels hard and firm underneath Cas, the way his jaw is drawn back sharply, the way his eyes are locked on Castiel with so much intensity. He realizes a moment later that perhaps what he is feeling is _attraction_.

"Surrender," he says again.

"_No_," Dean grits out.

Castiel presses down harder, his brows furrowing together. Struggling to ignore the heat burning through his fingertips. There's another moment of Dean's mouth opening and closing around nothing, searching for air, and his face is slowly turning redder - and then Charlie's at the edge of the ring shouting, "Okay! Okay! Castiel's the winner - get off him _now_."

Castiel jerks up as though burned and clambers to his feet, moving a few yards away and staring at Dean silently.

The fight had lasted all of five minutes.

First Dean gets to his knees, still bent on one hand and coughs, his other coming up to massage his throat before he shakes his head and gets to his feet. "Okay," he says hoarsely, his voice coming out deeper than usual. "Okay. I get it. You can fight."

Castiel feels hot all over, alive in every muscle of his body. This is what he was trained to do - this is what he was born to do. Fight, protect, _win._ He ignores the lingering sense of attraction. "Say it," he says.

"Say what?"

"That'll you give me the respect I deserve." His chest moves up and down with his breathing, his shirt sticking to the dip in his back. "Please, Agent Winchester."

They stare at each other silently for a moment until Charlie says, "Dean."

"Fine. _Fine_," says Dean, shaking his head and finally looking away. "You won. You're a good fighter. Even if you are young - you deserve respect. And you'll have it. But one fight in an arena isn't winning the war - it's different out there, Cas. They don't stop and wait for you to recover. That's all I have to say. Now, come on. It's time we got back to the case at hand."

And with that he sweeps past, leaving Charlie to give him a sympathetic look before following after.

Castiel stands there, arms hanging limply by his sides, and wonders if he'll ever truly impress Dean Winchester.

* * *

Castiel wakes up screaming that night. The sheets are tangled around his legs and he struggles for a moment before hands are on his arms, holding him still, and a voice is directly above him, speaking soothingly. "Cas. Cas. Calm down. Cas, stop, it was a dream."

Cas. Only one person calls him Cas, and that person is - "Dean," he says weakly, looking up through the darkness at the man hovering anxiously above him. "Oh. Oh, I woke you up." Abruptly, the terror in his veins gives way to a thrill of horror. "God, I'm so sorry - I didn't mean -" He scrambles backwards, hitting the headboard, and then shudders deeply to his core. "Please go back to sleep," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Mad. Dean is going to be mad. Mad, mad, mad, mad -

"Hey," whispers Dean, sitting down on the bed and reaching out a hand towards Castiel. He brushes Castiel's sweat-slick hair and then withdraws when Castiel flinches. "Hey, it's fine. I barely need four hours to function, and that's met. What do you need?"

"Medicine," says Castiel automatically and then rolls out of the bed and moves straight for his bag, ruffling through it before finding the sought after pills and uncapping it. He pops two in his mouth, dry, and then closes his eyes, standing there and waiting for it to take effect.

Waits.

His back feels sticky, his stomach twisting with something sickening, his heart still a heavy thud in his ears. His hands tremble. "Nothing's happening," he says in a high, panicked voice. "It's not working." He fumbles, trying to shake more pills out, and then freezes when two hands close over his and Dean's naked chest appears before him.

"Cas," he says softly. "Go back to bed. You don't need the pills."

"But I do," says Castiel, looking up with wide blue eyes. Everything's closing in on him, everything's surrounding him - another full bodied shudder ripples through him. "I - do you want me to beg for it, Dean?"

Dean freezes and then shakes his head quickly. "Cas - no, I just want you to be -" he drags a hand over the stubble on his face and then closes his eyes. "I can sleep in the same bed with you again. If it'll help."

Castiel has been doing his best not to think about that night - about waking up warm and safe and wrapped in Dean's arms like he meant something to the other man, if only for that one night - and feels incredibly small when he whispers, "Please."

"Get into bed," says Dean. He sounds tired and resigned. Castiel moves swiftly to comply, avoiding his own hotel bed and sliding into Dean's. The sheets radiate leftover body heat - the pillow smells like the cologne Dean uses. He shivers and then lets out a quiet, helpless sound when Dean slides in beside him.

"Am I allowed to touch you?" The question would have never slipped out if he hadn't just had another bone-chilling nightmare, if he wasn't dead exhausted, if he didn't feel weak and vulnerable. He knows this is dissolving all the respect he gained from the fight earlier but he can't help it - and when Dean says, "Yes," in a low voice, Castiel doesn't care about that one ounce.

Immediately, he slides across the narrow gap between them, teeth chattering now as he wriggles underneath Dean's arm and tucks himself against him. It's a moment before Dean relaxes against him and then another more when Dean's arm comes up behind him, holding it close.

"Want to talk about it?" he says quietly.

"No," says Castiel without thinking.

"Okay."

He wonders if Dean can feel his heart, still racing away. "Do I make you uncomfortable?"

"Cas, no."

He swallows hard, and when he speaks, his voice is a sharp whisper cutting through the air like a knife. It rushes out of him, uncontrollable. "I was in a tunnel. I knew they were going to waterboard me if I didn't get out in under a minute. I couldn't figure out which way was up because they'd put me in unconscious. It was. So dusty, I was choking, I knew they could hear me, I knew they were going to cut my time limit because of it." He's breathing too fast now and he has to bury his face in Dean's warm skin, closing his eyes tightly and trying to focus.

_Why is the medicine not kicking in?_

"They - used the waterboard technique?" asks Dean. His voice sounds strange.

"Incentive," manages Castiel.

Dean's arm tightens around him.

But it's not enough. Castiel's still gasping for air, the tunnel is still hovering at the edges of his vision whenever he dares to open his eyes, the water is only a moment away, choking him, drowning him.

"What do you need?" asks Dean, shifting against him, his voice a rumble of concern. "Tell me."

"Can you - can you -"

"Don't be afraid," Dean whispers.

"Like before? Can you hold me like before?"

There's a pause and Castiel knows he's pushed too far this time, gone to the limit, done something irreversible - and then Dean says in a strangled voice, "Yeah. Yeah, just turn over."

Castiel shifts away from him and for a second there's nothing and he's empty and then Dean moves up behind him, tucking one arm around his waist and dragging him back against him. "You're shivering," Dean says softly.

"I'm trying to be better."

"You're doing fine, Cas. Better than fine. You're. A great partner."

The heat is sinking in all around him, the bed sheets are fresh and soft - there are strong arms around him that will not let him be taken, will not give him up. He's drifting already, slowly falling down into himself. "Not gonna let them get me?"

There's silence for so long that Castiel is very nearly asleep again when hot breath puffs against his ear. "Never. Go to sleep."

"Sleep," Castiel affirms, and then slowly drifts down, down, down.

He does not realize that the man behind him is awake for much longer after that. He does not feel the warm caress of fingers against his hip bone. Does not feel the way Dean finally tucks his head in at the crook of his neck and shoulder, lips pressing down for a moment before the older man gives in and falls asleep slowly.

There are no more nightmares that night.

* * *

Five weeks into their partnership, Charlie calls again.

"Lay it on me," says Dean as soon as he flips open the phone, ignoring the way that Castiel startles in the seat next to him. He shoots the kid an exasperated sideways look and then transfers his phone to the opposite ear and waits for Charlie to start speaking. "Hello? You there?"

"That's what I was waiting for," she says, sounding dry. "What happened to 'Hello, how are you, Charlie'? That get too old-fashioned for you?"

"Charlie, we're working a national drug case that is spreading exponentially as we speak. Lives are at stake, children are being pulled in and destroyed forever."

"Wow, calm down there, Mister The World is Going to Shit," says Charlie, and he pictures her pausing for once at whatever electronic device she's currently using to give the phone a patented _Is there something wrong with you _look. "You're going to scare the kid."

Dean looks sideways at Castiel's miserable huddled form. "Too late for that one."

"Please tell me you're feeding him."

"Can you please tell me why you called? If it's to mock me, I'm hanging up -"

"Hang up and you'll miss the best news you'll hear all week," she warns, and Dean pauses. There is most definitely a wicked smile curving her lips right now and he would do anything to hang up on her right then and there just to wipe it off. Except that would mean giving up the so-called best news of the week, and that's simply not happening. Damn her. "That's what I thought."

"Done being smug?"

"Not by a longshot."

"Charlie," he sighs. "Must we go through this every damn time?"

"You started it."

"_Charlie._"

"All right, all right. What are your coordinates right now?"

"Like you don't already have me pinpointed and tracked," he snorts. "We're in - ah, shit, somewhere near Rochester -"

"New York?"

"Minnesota."

"Apple Valley," says Castiel, from his right.

"Apple Valley, Minnesota," Dean tells Charlie and then sneaks another glance. Castiel is firmly looking out the window. Dean refocuses on the flat black pavement in front of him.

"All right, good. How fast do you think you can get to Grand Rapids, Michigan?"

"If I speed?" asks Dean and then smirks, because it's nearly a guarantee that he'll speed. "About seven hours."

"Perfect."

"And why exactly am I going to Grand Rapids? The weather in Minnesota is _so _enviable."

"This is the part you're going to like," says Charlie, and Dean pictures her sitting up straighter, tossing her red hair over her shoulder with eager eyes. "Garth's intel came through; there's going to be a dealer in some club called _Pulse. _Tomorrow night, and only tomorrow night. Dean, this may be your chance."

"Holy shit," says Dean, and then - real quick - glances at Castiel again. This time the kid's looking at him, though immediately he looks away again. "Holy shit, Charlie, did Garth's intel score us a name?"

"Couldn't do that much, but he did say to speak to some guy wearing a purple vest to get to the dealer. Dean, don't blow this one, okay? We can't have another impromptu phone call beating us to the catch this time."

"I'm not going to fucking blow it," says Dean, but he's not angry because he knows that Charlie only means it for the best. If anyone could ever get away with saying something like that, it'd damned well be Charlie, after all they'd gone through together.

"Watch your mouth around the kid," she says, and then laughs.

"Funny. I'm hanging up now," he says and presses end. He can't help himself - he looks over a final time, pursing his lips slightly and letting his fingers tighten on the wheel. "Hear that? We're going to Michigan. Got a steady lead, for once. No underaged pot dealers for us this time."

"Where at?"

"Some club called _Pulse_. Clubs always have the shittiest name. I suppose you'll stand down the fort in whatever motel we grab," says Dean nonchalantly.

Castiel jerks next to him, looking at him with flashing eyes. "I will not!" he says hotly, and then flushes and adds, "Agent Winchester, with all due respect, I was not put on this case to guard an empty hotel room. I know you think I'm incompetent -"

"I don't think you're incompetent," begins Dean.

"But I have been trained my entire life for situations such as these," continues Castiel forcefully, to Dean's utter surprise. He honestly hadn't expected the kid to respond. "I am an expert in angels and their kind, I am the top fighter in my year, and I know how to handle nineteen different types of firearms. You _need _back-up," he finishes, sounding heated and nearly passionate for the first time since Dean's met him, "and I am here to provide it."

"You can't even get in, you're underage," mutters Dean, unable to think of a single other thing to combat this fierce argument with.

"The OBIT provided me with top of the line false ID," says Castiel calmly.

"I can't believe this. We're breaking the law to protect the law. It's completely absurd."But he has a point. Dean _does _need back-up, and Castiel's as good as any other agent. The situation is fucked-up, but if they can get an adequate lead… well, maybe it'll be worth it.

He looks back to the road, and spends the next eight hours decidedly not thinking about Castiel in his bed.

* * *

**A/N: **Castiel's finally standing up for himself! (Sort of.) Poor baby. He just can't win.

Reviews are Dean and Cas wrestling... naked. In bed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

They get to Michigan that night and with an entire day ahead of them before the dealer's in sight, Dean decides to take the night off. And since it's apparently been decided that Cas will be accompanying him into the nightclub, he decides that the seventeen-year-old needs a bit of practice with the bar atmosphere.

"To appear natural," he tells Castiel, who merely looks dubious about the whole concept. He has to hold up his ID in order to get in, but its only glanced at for a moment before he's nodded inside to the dim interior. An unfamiliar song plays loudly overhead but there's a manageable amount of people in the room for a Thursday night and Dean can at least hear himself think. "I'm going to get us some drinks, and you can get a booth."

"A booth," Castiel repeats and then slowly wanders off.

Dean watches his progress for a moment - represses a smile as Castiel starts to sit down in what is clearly an occupied booth before startling away - and then shakes his head and heads to the bar. "I'll have a beer, thanks - and -" He glances back, squinting through the darkness until he sees a small figure seated awkwardly by himself in the back. A lopsided smile comes to his face and he turns back around, exasperated, "and a Coke, as well."

"Got an underage one, eh?" asks the bartender good-naturedly as she holds a mug up to a spout and lets the thick amber liquid stream in. She's got blonde tips at the end of her dark hair and tattoos covering her forearms. "Good luck scoring with that one."

"I - oh - no," says Dean, smile disappearing instantly. "No. Uh. DD, actually."

"Right," and the two mugs get pushed across the counter. "Good luck, anyway."

_Not a date_, Dean thinks as he turns back around and heads straight for the booth Castiel's claimed. _Not a date. What bullshit. Just because. Nothing. It's not._

"Here," he says brusquely, setting the plastic cup down and skidding it towards Castiel. "Non-alcoholic. Figured you wouldn't want a drink."

"You were right," says Castiel, looking up at him. His eyes flicker in the dark lighting. "Thank you, Dean."

"Yeah." He sits down and immediately drinks half of his beer in one go, his throat working as he swallows around the cold drink, heaving a sigh afterwards and then looking at Castiel. "So."

"Hmm," says Castiel.

"What's up?"

Castiel blinks. "I'm supposedly getting practice for the nightclub we're entering tomorrow in order to -"

"All right, all right, forget I asked," says Dean, waving this aside. "You're too literal sometimes, Cas, anyone ever told you that?"

Castiel frowns into his Coke. "No."

"I am not nearly drunk enough to be at a bar with you," Dean declares after several beats of terrible silence. He finishes off his glass. "I need another."

"Is it really wise to get intoxicated the night before a mission?" asks Cas tentatively.

"Not _nearly_ drunk enough," Dean emphasizes, and leaves to get a second one. It goes down just as easily as the first and by the middle of the third one, things feel slightly more comfortable. "Ever have a girlfriend, Cas?"

"No," says Castiel. He looks just as tense as when they entered, and his drink has barely been touched. He sits with his hands in his lap, shoulders hunched slightly and face cut in shadow. After a moment he adds, "We weren't allowed."

"Weren't allowed? Why the hell not? Good-looking kid like you would definitely get all the girls." Dean lifts his mug in mock toast.

"Thank you, Dean," says Castiel, looking torn between mildly uncomfortable and slightly flattered. "But they believed it would distract us from our training and studies."

"God, what a hellhole," says Dean, pausing his quest to get drunk as he stares across the table at the other boy. "Can't even get laid before the age of - well, when do they release you into the wild?"

Castiel tilts his head. "Never."

Dean chokes. "What the hell do you mean never?"

"Well," now he looks considering. "I mean, the OBIT has only been functional for twenty-two years, so, only a few years older than I am. I guess maybe eventually they'll let the older ones go, but as of right now…" He shrugs. "The oldest still remain in custody."

"And even the legal ones don't get to have fun every now and then?" demands Dean.

"Maybe they do." He pushes his plastic cup in a circle and then slowly takes a sip. "I wouldn't know. I'm not in contact with any of them."

"Okay, fine, you're not _allowed _to date any of them - but did you ever like any of them? Hell, have you even ever had your first kiss?"

Castiel flushes slightly and shifts in his seat. "I - may have. Once."

Dean grins slyly. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

A small sip of coke. "You first."

The bar is wide open and there are a few drunk adults - probably just-turned-twenty-one-year-olds - dancing in the corner, a few more playing pool, but it feels small and intimate to Dean as he downs the rest of his beer and then leans in with a conspiratorial look and watches Castiel do the same, expression solemn.

"I was fourteen, and this, ah, older girl noticed me at one of the new high schools we'd just moved to. She was a senior and her name was Lisbeth and she was utterly gorgeous," says Dean, his grin widening at Castiel's silent rapture. "I'd only been there for about a week when she took me behind the football stadiums after school one day and - taught me quite a few things." He smirks. "I owe a lot to that girl."

"What happened to her?" Castiel asks.

Dean drags a finger over his top lip musingly. "She didn't want any of her friends to find out she was messing around with a freshman. We kept things quiet for about three weeks and then we had to move again and I never saw her again. I wonder if she's still hot."

"Inspirational," says Castiel.

Dean blinks and sets his arm down and then stares. "You're being sarcastic," he says.

"Astounding that you could tell." His tone is drier than the fucking desert.

"You're _still _being sarcastic." Dean can't get enough of it.

Castiel sighs. "You need more alcohol."

"_Brilliant _idea," says Dean, and leaves to get a fourth. He catches the eye of a woman at the bar when he gets there - blonde hair, dark red lipstick, and she eyes him with speculation but his attention is locked back there in the booth with the strange creature of a teenage boy he's been partnered with. "Your turn," he says as soon as he's back in his seat.

Castiel's watching him. "There's not much to say."

"Bullshit. You're just trying to get out of it because you know it won't compare to Lisbeth Holloway."

"It sounds like nothing will, to be honest."

"Cas," says Dean warningly.

A little sigh, and then, "His name was Alfie, I was fifteen, he was seventeen, I don't know where he's at now, I nearly missed. The end."

Dean's whirling, trying to catch up. "_His _name?" he asks, and takes a large sip of his beer to cover up the astonished glance in his eyes. He can tell he still looks winded, however, by the flatness creeping into Castiel's expression.

"Is there a problem, Agent Winchester?"

"Dean," he corrects automatically and then quickly shakes his head. "No. Nope. No problem."

"Because the OBIT certainly had a problem with it," says Castiel, and then picks up his Coke and takes a drink.

Dean doesn't know what to say. He has no fucking clue what to say. About any of it. And he certainly can't ask, because for once there's a look in the kid's eyes that tells him there will be no disclosure on this subject, none at all. Struggling to change the subject, he says, "You've missed out on so fucking much, Cas. What all haven't you done?"

"How would I know," says Castiel, "what I haven't done?"

He purses his lips and then takes a drink. "Point. All right, what if I name some things and you tell me if you've done it or not?"

"Fine."

"Hmm," says Dean. "Roller-skating."

He looks puzzled. "Why would I need to know how to do that?"

"I'll take that as a no, then. Cow tipping."

"You are not being serious."

"Deadly serious!" exclaims Dean. "These are all perfectly normal things that every teenage boy needs to experience at least once in his hormone-driven, reckless, idiotic life. Uh. Shit. Frozen yogurt?"

"Unnutritional."

"You've got me kidding me."

Castiel just drinks more of his Coke.

"That Coke's not nutritional."

"Are you going to take it away from me?" he asks, looking up and then cocking his head. His hair is wildly mussed and his eyes are far too bright for the dim lighting in here; he looks innocent and jaded all at the same time. "If you think it would be for the best, by all means." He pushes it towards Dean.

"Take your fucking Coke back," says Dean, and pushes it back across the table. Then a thought occurs to him. "Please, for the love of all things holy, tell me you know how to drive a car."

"Of course I know how to drive a car," he says with a slightly incredulous look. "They taught us how to drive by thirteen."

Dean sighs, hope gone. "Of course. Of course they have to find a way to make every damn thing illegal."

"They put a timer in the car and told us a controlled explosive would go off if we didn't complete the course in a certain amount of time."

"Is _anything _legal there?" he asks. "Doesanyone fucking regulate it? At all? I mean, God, how did any of you survive if everything you did was threatened with death?"

"Threatened," points out Castiel. "Some of it was real and some of it was false - the problem was that we never knew which ones were going to end in actual pain or not until someone messed up. But now I know how to drive better than you, probably."

"I can't even be upset about that," says Dean disbelievingly. "I don't think I've ever been _less_ upset about someone being a better driver than me."

A moment passes and then slowly the corner of Castiel's mouth quirks up - achingly slow and then the other side lifts until he's smiling at Dean, his eyes crinkling and growing into a warm ocean blue.

Dean finds himself inexplicably smiling back and for a second they're just sitting there smiling at each other like idiots - and then Dean shakes himself. "I'm going to get more," he says, lifting up his empty mug. "You want anything? Wait - have you ever tried chili cheese fries?"

"Nope," says Castiel. "Am I about to?"

"Hell yeah you are." He slides out of the booth and points a finger at Cas. "And _fuck _the nutritional value. Hear me?"

There's a bit of a wait to get the bartender's attention and then another wait for the food to cook - Dean leans against the counter, sipping at his beer slowly, and struggles not to think of a fifteen-year-old Castiel learning how to kiss. On a dude. With a male. A male's lips pressed to his also-male lips. He closes his eyes for a moment and - fuck, there it is, swimming up out of the darkness of his eyelids, Castiel pressed up against a nameless, faceless male - and then suddenly Castiel is pressed up against _him _and his eyes fly open, immediately shifting off the counter and looking around.

_Stop that_, he thinks, shaking his head and then planting his forearms on the counter and letting his head hang down. _Stop that right this fucking second_.

Because he doesn't like Cas. He can't like Cas. It's not even about the fact that he's a guy, because, yeah, Dean's been there. Had a few rough nights in college, a few one night stands that he's not proud of. Or that he is proud of. Whatever, it happened, it's done with, and if he sometimes notices the rough hands of his coworkers or the strong jawlines of strangers in the grocery store, it's no big deal.

It is, however, a big fucking deal to be thinking that way about a _seventeen-year-old kid_. One he works with, no less, and who appears to have been raised in a completely illegal, immoral hellhole.

"Shit," mutters Dean, lifting his head up and chugging the rest of his beer, too quickly.

He thinks of Castiel, asking him quietly if Dean will hold him in the middle of the night. Thinks of Castiel, pinning him to the floor and then demanding respect. Thinks of him looking stubborn and determined.

Thinks of him laying beneath Dean, moaning in that low voice, begging for more.

He is so fucked up.

"Chili cheese fries?" calls the bartender and Dean turns, lifting two fingers and then managing a smile as he takes them and his beer and heads back to the booth.

And stops halfway.

Because there's a man standing at the edge of the booth, leaning down to talk to Castiel, and from Dean's vantage point he can see that Castiel looks stiff and awkward, his upper body held slightly away from the much larger man. It is not the body posture of someone eager and willing - certainly not the posture of someone interested in the person coming onto them. And this is definitely a come on; Dean's seen it a thousand times if he's seen it once. Hell, he's been on both sides of it since he was younger than Cas is.

He's already scowling, shoulders going tense as he watches the proceedings - waiting for when he needs to step in. The little scolding he'd given himself just moments earlier has already evaporated and there is a hot ball of possessiveness in his stomach, reaching up through his veins. Jealousy, too. Protectiveness.

And then he sees the man jerk his head away from the booth and reach down, gripping Castiel's arm and tugging him out and Dean's had enough.

"That's it," he mutters and doesn't hesitate, doesn't think, and yeah he's chugged five beers now in too short of a time period and he's not thinking clearly but he'll be damned if he watches Cas - Cas, who's been through so much already and doesn't even know what fucking chili cheese fries taste like - go through one more ordeal. "Hey," he says as he weaves through the tables and a few heads turn to him but not the one he wants.

"Hey," he says louder. "Hey, _fucker_. Shithead - yeah, you -" and the guy's turning now, looking both annoyed and resigned - "Hey, back the fuck away from the kid."

"Why?" the guy grunts. "He yours?"

"He's not _anyone's_," says Dean, still talking too loudly. The plate of chili cheese fries is starting to burn his palm. "He's his own person and it's clear that he doesn't want you hanging around - so why don't you take the hint and hit the road, pal."

"Hey, man, you ever consider you're the one he doesn't want hanging around?" He's not a wholly unattractive man with thick brows, a hard jaw, cutting eyes - but Cas would never for this brutish, idiotic asshole.

_He'd go for someone much better_, a snide little voice pipes up. _Someone with an admirable job and work ethic, in, say, the justice field._

"I think it's time you leave," says Castiel from behind them, having somehow wriggle his way out of the booth. He looks incredibly small next to the stranger but his chin sticks out determinedly. "Please," he adds.

"I can make you say please in more ways than one," says the stranger, glancing at Dean and it is clear he's saying this just to get a rise out of him.

Stupidly, drunkenly, it works.

Dean moves seemingly without thinking, shifting his arm up - the one holding the food - and moving forward and then the plate's hitting the man right in the middle of his chest, sticking there for a moment before slowly it drags down his front, leaving a smear of chili and cheese on his black silk shirt, and then the plate drops the rest of the way to the floor and shatters. They hold eye contact the entire time and he feels a sting of pride when the man flinches at the glass breaking.

"Please," says Dean.

After that, everything happens all at once.

The man snarls, "You shithead," and grabs two fistfuls of Dean's shirt, hauling him forward, and Dean smiles and says, "What - no thank you?" and Castiel says, "Dean," and then Dean grips back and pushes, using his entire weight to slam the man back into the edge of the table. He releases all his breath out in a painful rush and then pushes Dean away and comes right after him, swinging a punch and catching Dean in the jaw.

Dean turns into the punch, letting himself go with it, and then turns around and uses his momentum to run straight at the man, catching him around the middle and throwing him to the floor. Which might have been a good move, except he gets dragged down with him and then they're grappling on the dirty bar floor like two high schoolers, rolling around and throwing punches and spitting expletives. There is nothing graceful about it, absolutely nothing like his fight with Castiel, but he can't deny that there's something freeing about a fight like this - dirty and harsh and free of any rules.

Dean's winning until suddenly he finds himself laying underneath the son of a bitch and then he's getting completely thrashed, unable to get his hands up to block his face and he can hear the bartender shouting at them to get their asses out - and then two hands grip the stranger by the back of his shirt and haul him off and halfway across the bar, landing on a table and then skidding off heavily onto the floor.

Castiel stares down at him, radiating disapproval.

"Wow, thanks, Mom," says Dean, coughing hard and then reaching up and realizing blood is splattered across his face. "I didn't need your help."

"It's your nose," says Castiel and hands him down a napkin. "Get up."

"I was fucking protecting you," says Dean, rolling over onto his side and then wincing as he gets to his feet. He can see the guy doing the same, looking just as battered, and feels another sharp prick of pride.

"Out," says the bartender, who has come around the counter to glare at Dean and his opponent. "Both of you. If you want to fight, do it in someone else's bar."

"Yeah, I hear you," says Dean, grimacing.

"And pay your damn bill first." She puts her hands on her hips and though she's small - smaller than Cas - there's still something that makes Dean feel mildly ashamed for his behavior. And then he realizes: because she reminds him inexplicably of Jo.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm - shit, I'm sorry."

There must be something in his expression that speaks of authenticity because she gives him another glare and then softens her expression slightly, glancing from him to Castiel. "You have an asshole for a friend," she tells Cas.

"I know," he says, and Dean would make an indignant noise if he wasn't staring at the girl with a wretched expression, his eyes locked on her every movement. "But he's trying. I think he's had too much to drink."

"Put a leash on him," she advises, and then gives Dean an odd look for his staring before turning around and walking back to the bar.

Dean fumbles for his wallet and then pushes it into Castiel's hands. "You pay," he says. "I'm going outside. Get some air. Just come outside when you're done, okay?"

"Do I tip her?" asks Castiel, frowning.

"Do whatever the hell you want." And then he's walking outside, moving too quickly, and his head is spinning by the time he's made it to the curb, sucking in air painfully and bending over, hands on his knees. He doesn't need this right now - doesn't need to see fucking reminders of her wherever he goes. What the hell would she even say to him right now - fighting with strangers in bars over who gets to the fuck the seventeen-year-old, unable to catch a break on some damn drug ring case, falling to pieces by the side of the road.

The door opens and closes behind him, letting a burst of laughter and raucous talking escape out into the cold air, and then there's silence. Finally, "I don't need you to protect me. I can fight my own battles."

There's the sound of shoes against pavement as he comes closer and then they come to an abrupt stop as though Castiel's recognizing that something's not right - something other than all the other not-right things in their lives. Everything's still for a long moment, and then a soft hand touches Dean's elbow. "Dean? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." He jerks away, straightening and putting his back to Castiel; abruptly, he remembers his bloodied nose. Reaching up, he scrubs the half-dried blood away with the sleeve of his jacket, and then touches his jawline, wincing at the soreness there. It's definitely going to bruise.

Another long silence and then, quietly, "It may have been misguided and due to your intoxication, but I suppose what you did could be seen as… thoughtful. In a way. So. Thank you."

"Don't thank me; it was a dick move I did back there," says Dean, speaking to the brick wall of the bar. "I -" he turns suddenly, realizing. "You didn't even get to try the chili cheese fries."

Castiel blinks up at him. "The greatest travesty of all," he says somberly.

Dean laughs wildly. "Yeah, okay. I get it. You're making fun of me. It's funny that I fuck up on absolutely everything. Want to sit down?"

"Out here?" asks Castiel.

"Why not?"

He seems to consider this for a moment and then wordlessly turns and moves to the edge of the road, sitting down at the curb. Dean follows. It is quiet around them, astoundingly quiet for a street with a bar on it, and the air leaving his lips escapes in a white cloud, drifting off and dissipating almost immediately. The concrete is ice cold beneath his jeans; his fingers freezing despite being shoved in his jacket pockets. The streetlight behind them flickers and buzzes.

"I lied. Before," he says at last. "About my first kiss."

Castiel just looks at him.

"There was no Lisbeth Holloway. Or, well, there was, but I didn't get to talk to her. My first kiss really happened when I got sent to a boys' home for two months. I met this girl, I was sixteen, and I didn't even get a chance to tell her goodbye when the time came for me to leave."

"You went to a boys' home?" Castiel doesn't seem to care that he was lied to. Maybe he's used to it.

"Yeah."

"For what?"

"Got caught stealing. It's not a big deal. Hell, if I hadn't gone there, then I would've had a record and I might not have gotten into the FBI. Those two months…" He looks up and squints into the night air, exhaling messily.

"Why did you lie about it?" Castiel shifts next to him, his jacket brushing against Dean's.

"I don't know."

Cas is quiet. "Don't you?"

He presses his lips together for a moment. "Didn't seem like the best first kiss story, that's all."

"If you think the OBIT disapproves of straight relationships, then you should see what they do to homosexual ones," says Castiel in a low voice. When Dean looks over he sees him looking off distantly. "Don't worry. I wasn't the one to get in trouble, since I was younger. I was simply 'misguided.'"

Dean doesn't know what to say or do. "What happened to Alfie?"

"They never told me. Just that if I did it again, I would face similar consequences."

"Jesus, Cas." Every time he thinks he's heard the worst thing that could happen to a teenage boy, he suffers another blow. And Cas - how is he even walking? How does he carry on through the day with this amount of weight resting on his shoulders? He is a soldier, in every sense of the word, with a gun in his hands since birth and restrictions hovering at every turn. "I'm sorry about what I did in there. I know you could have handled it."

"It's okay. He deserved it."

"So you really didn't want him there? I wasn't - interrupting anything?"

Castiel just looks at him again. "It's getting late," he finally says.

Dean immediately looks away. "Yeah. You're right. We should get going. Definitely." But he doesn't move and neither does Cas, for a very long time after that. When they at last do, it feels as though something has shifted minorly - but he doesn't know what and he puts it out of his mind, resolving not to think about this night for as long as possible.

* * *

**A/N: **Reviews are Dean taking Cas out under the football stadium and teaching _him_ new things. All sorts of new things.


	7. Chapter 7

The thing is, Castiel definitely looks underaged to Dean, but he doesn't even get questioned when they both walk into the darkened night club together.

"Well," says Dean, just inside the door, pausing to look back at the bouncer. "That is just terrible security. 0/10, definitely would not recommend coming here again."

"Maybe they knew I was with you," says Castiel, looking at him.

"You _are _with me." And then he realizes what he's said and he looks sideways, frowning. "Whatever. You know what I mean. It's still shitty security."

"Are you complaining because I didn't get to use my fake ID?"

"I - shut up," he says, and then they walk out onto a balcony and both fall silent. The majority of the club is underground, with the entrance at ground level, and so to get to the main dancefloor requires walking down a long, metal staircase that disappears into a crowd of dancing bodies. Inside, now, the music pulses and throbs, a heavy beat that seems to jarr Dean to his very core. Natural light doesn't penetrate the depths of the club, and the faces of the dancers look nearly sickly in the pulse of red, green, and purple lights flashing in time with the music. Mouths hang open, bodies moving at a slower pace than the music as everyone weaves together.

Castiel stands at Dean's side, staring transfixed.

"Is this your first time at a club?" shouts Dean over the music, and the winces, because that's very nearly a pick-up line he's used once or twice on girls. Luckily, Castiel doesn't seem to notice.

"Yes," he says back, not seeming to realize that his voice is immediately swept away in the bass of the music. It's something new and techno and electronic and Dean, to his chagrin, almost enjoys it. It's the sort of music that pounds into you, that sweeps away all thoughts, that leads you to only think about whose hips are grinding into yours, the smell of sweat in the air. "It's loud."

He's only staring at Castiel's lips to read what they're saying, Dean justifies. "Listen - hey!" He pulls at the kid's arm, trying to get his attention, and then pulls him off to an alcove, stooping a little to be heard. "We need to find this prick in a purple vest, Charlie says. He's the one who will get us to the dealer and then as soon as we get a lockdown on him, we can call for back-up, all right?"

Castiel blinks up at him. "Dean, there's hundreds of people in here. And it's dark and there's smoke everywhere. How are we going to find anyone?"

"We're fucking agents," Dean says and then glances around to make sure no one heard that. But how could they, with this fucking bass pulsing in his very soul? "We'll just go down there and have a look around. He can't be too hidden - other people need access to this guy as well."

"Are we going to dance?" asks Castiel, and his eyes flash in the light of the club, looking too wide and too innocent for this job.

"I - stick to the mission," says Dean, for lack of a better thing to say, and then turns and goes with Castiel close to his back.

The further down they go, the darker it gets - the hotter it gets, the air clogging up Dean's lungs and swirling through his brain. The louder it gets as well, and now he can feel the sharp vibrations starting in the soles of his feet and moving up his legs, trembling in his veins. Slowly, his eyes adjust and the writhing shapes turn back into people, heads rolling, arms sliding against one another, all seeking out heat and friction and touch.

"Stay close," Dean shouts back at Castiel, watching as he starts to drift towards the crowd of moving people, eyes locked on the dancers. "Focus!"

"Right," says Castiel, forgetting again to speak over the music, his voice lost in the sea of noise. "Focus."

Dean feels eyes on him and lets it slide off - while normally he would return the stares, smile a slow smile at whoever was watching him, tonight is different. Tonight is - and then he realizes that the eyes are not solely on him but also following the boy behind him and he reaches back without thinking, taking Castiel's arm and dragging him forward, closer. He feels protective for a moment over this wide-eyed, messy-haired, first-time-to-a-club-goer and he leads them to the edge of the bar, turning his back on the counter and looking at Cas.

"What?" asks Cas.

"Speak up," Dean says loudly.

"_What_?" and now he's yelling. Dean rolls his eyes.

"Seen him?"

"Seen _who_?"

Castiel is now talking far too loudly. And he doesn't even look like a smartass while doing it, just annoyingly confused. Far too confused for a FBI agent. Fucking hell.

"Seen the -" Dean wants to massage his forehead, but that would make it look to the casual observer that it was the music's fault and he is _not that old yet, dammit. _"The guy," he says, leaning closer and gritting his teeth.

Castiel's eyes dart around, taking everything in what is so clearly a smooth, practiced move. Dean wonders how many time he's been put through a training scenario like this one, with all his senses on assault. "No."

"Should we," Dean gives in, rubbing a hand against his forehead. "Should we," God, Cas is still giving him that bewildered look, "_split up_?" he finishes louder.

"I don't know," shouts Castiel back and then frowns. "Dean, if he's really here then -" what he says is lost in a tidal wave of noise as every member of the club seems to scream for something at the exact same time.

Dean shakes his head, lost.

"I said, _what if there are people who -_"

Another brick of sound breaks through their conversation and Dean closes his eyes for a moment, frustrated beyond belief with the entire fucking situation.

"Look, don't do anything without me," he shouts, breaking off whatever Cas is saying. He can't understand it anyway. "If you see anything, _stay down_, and text me, and I'll come to you."

Castiel presses his lips together, looking like he wants to speak up again, and then, thank God, he nods sharply and turns, the tan trenchcoat he'd insisted on wearing ("_It'll make me look older, Dean, which is crucial to the mission," "Oh, for fuck's sake, just wear it.") _flaring out behind him for a moment before he disappears into the crowd entirely.

Dean really, really fucking hopes he doesn't regret splitting up.

He turns around, resting his elbows on the slick marble counter and looking sideways for a moment, examining the faces of the nearby patrons for a moment, searching, hunting. He meets the eyes of two interested women and one man further down who gives him a sly smile - Dean quickly turns away - and then finally the eyes of the bartender approaching.

"What'll it be?" the bartender asks, rolling up his white sleeves and giving him an impatient stare.

"Rum and coke," says Dean. To not be suspicious. Because it would look suspicious to be at a bar and not drinking anything. He's not drinking on the job. Not with a kid around. Naturally.

He feels better with the drink in his hand, more secure with his surroundings, and takes a slow sip, grimacing slightly before looking to his right. No purple vest anywhere in sight, and his eyes slide to the dazed girl sitting next to him, looking as high as fucking kite. Might as well. "Hey," he says, leaning in and giving her a coy smile. "You know of any flight attendants in this area?"

She blinks stupidly at him and then pushes herself off her bar stool, stumbling away. "Fucking idiot," she says back, and then disappears into the crowd.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Or not," he mutters and then feels a hand on his shoulder - decidedly male, and he turns, ready to turn down whatever prick is groping him.

Instead, he's met with a confidential smile and friendly eyes. "Did I hear you asking about where you can get a flight out of here, friend?" asks the man.

Dean automatically smiles back, turning slightly and holding out a hand. "Yes, you sure did. Call me McLean."

The man gives another smile and says, "Sure, McLean," but doesn't offer anything else up and Dean knows he's on the verge here of something good.

"So," he says casually. "Got any tickets?"

"One or two," says the man. Dean decides to call him Long Island Ice Tea, due to the drink in his hand. "Have any references?"

"JD," says Dean, naming the narc in contact with Garth who'd given the description of the purple vest. "Know him?"

"Know of him," responds the guy vaguely. "Got a destination in mind?"

"A vial," says Dean, and he'd find it annoying to go through all the jargon if he wasn't so fucking ansty about being so close.

Long Island lets out a low whistle. "Gonna cost you."

Casually, Dean moves his shoulder, bringing his hand up and purposefully sliding it into his pocket where a wad of cash rests inside. He's not going to show it to this guy - he doesn't even know if this is a real connection to the actual dealer - but it's enough of a movement that the other man's eyes flicker down to his pocket and then back up to Dean's face, thoughtfully examining him.

"I can take you to an airport. Given a taxi fee, of course."

"I'll make sure you get it," says Dean smoothly. "Once we've arrived, that is."

Another slow examination, and it's a sign of how often this guy probably goes fishing for customers that he's not worried, not anxious, not upset by Dean's refusal to pay upfront.

But he should be worried. He should be anxious. Because Dean's going to get inside this operation and then rip apart piece by piece, and this guy's going down in the flames.

* * *

The sounds close in on Castiel's ears, and he is torn between covering his ears like a child and giving in and letting it consume his mind. He's had stimulus training like this, but somehow this experience is different - more pleasurable, for one, and he finds himself losing track of his own body in the massive crowd surrounding him. There are hands that linger on his sleeves, over his hair, and for one moment he is pressed in between two slick bodies, unsure of the sex of either, before they're gone again and he's moving on.

It's been - how long since he left Dean's side? Unsure, Castiel slides his hand in his pocket and fingers the side of his phone, checking to make sure it's there, to make sure it hasn't vibrated (it hasn't) and then he's back to the music, eyes dilated wildly in the flashing lights sliding over his skin.

"Hey, baby," says a girl, sliding in front of him out of nowhere and then moving to press herself up against him, tossing her hair back and letting her neck shine pale in the lights before him. "Dance with me."

He doesn't know how to dance, has never danced before, feels awkward and out of step and goddamn _alive_ and he cautiously puts his hands on her hips, his breath catching as she presses closer still and puts her arms up around his neck, the distance between them non-existent.

This isn't dancing - not really, this is the beat pulsing from his veins to hers, her hair sticking to the side of her face and her smell hot in his head, her fingers tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

It seems important to him to ask, "What's your name?"

She doesn't respond and so, louder: "What's your _name_?"

Her words are slurred slightly and she's gripping him tighter but she just manages to lift her head up and press her lips to his ear to shout, "Arianna," before her head is back down, focused on the music.

"My name's Castiel," he shouts back, and she doesn't respond or acknowledge this at all, in fact. "Have you seen a man in a purple vest?"

"Dance!" she shouts up at him, her hands sliding down onto his chest as she shakes her hips and dips down and then turns and glances back up at him, pressing back against him and smiling drunkenly.

She is no help to this mission and now Castiel's panicking a little. "I can't," he tells her and then extracts himself from her slippery hands, backing away and watching as someone comes up behind her and takes his place, her expression not changing.

He turns, feeling his heart too loud in his chest, and sees him.

Sees him right there, directly through the crowd, glaringly obvious for a moment with his purple sparkling vest and - oh. Dean didn't mention that that was _all _he was wearing, that and tight, black leather pants.

Castiel swallows and reaches back into his pocket, touching the phone again.

And then withdrawing his hand, steeling his shoulders, and sliding through the crowd, absent from the music now, feet moving purposefully.

The crowd fluctuates sharply and for a moment Vest is lost - and then Castiel sees him again, and now he realizes that he's talking to some other guy, tall, with dark hair, both of them leaning towards each other to be heard. Then the crowd swells together again and Castiel lets out a frustrated breath, struggling to push forward.

"Excuse me," he says politely, and then rams his shoulder forward, struggling to force himself through. "_Move!_"

It's a harsh struggle and Castiel grits his teeth and uses both hands to shove people out of the way - and no one even notices or seems to care, all of them with their drugs and their alcohol and their need to escape, God, he loves them - and then he's through and Vest is gone but the guy he was talking to is still there, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette.

Castiel breathes heavily, thin shoulders shaking and face shining with sweat, and then makes direct eye contact with Vest's friend.

The guy stares back for a moment, puffing carelessly, and then pulls the cigarette out, smiles a slow smile, turns and disappears through the door behind him.

"Wait," rasps Castiel out and, cell phone forgotten, rushes forward, not glancing once over his shoulder as he pushes the door open and stumbles out into the cold night air, his breath coming out in a stream of fog as he looks around for the guy.

And then there he is.

"Saw you watching me," says the man, looking sultry and dangerous and letting his smoky breath wash against Castiel's neck. He's far too close. "What's a little twink like you doing in a place like that? Must have a good fake ID."

"They didn't check," says Castiel stupidly, staring up at him.

"My name's Vince," smiles the guy, nothing but predatory. "You got a name, kid?"

Dean calls him kid. "Dean," says Castiel, without thinking.

"That's a good name for someone with lips such as yours," says Vince, coming closer, and Castiel thinks to himself that he's going to definitely have to ask Dean what that means. "I'll pay you."

"I'm not a prostitute," says Castiel, and then moves back a step, realizing as he does so that he's shivering.

He remembers the phone and the text, too late.

"Even better," grins Vince, moving with him, towering over Castiel.

"Information," blurts Castiel, right as Vince's hand reaches out. "That's what I want."

Vince stills. "What kind of information, kid?"

Castiel struggles to think, his breath spilling out of him too quickly, the streams of white barely fading before another appears. "The man you were talking to."

Dark eyes narrow; Castiel swallows.

"He - I know he's connected to - Grace," he manages.

All of a sudden Vince is grinning again, razor sharp, and he moves closer, reaching out to touch Castiel's hair. "Doesn't want money," he muses. "Wants some good ole' Grace, running through his veins. You've ever had it before, kid?"

Castiel shakes his head, jerkingly. "H-heard about it," he says, teeth chattering. "Thought I'd try it."

"What else did you want to try tonight?" asks Vince, smirking.

Castiel stares up at him, blinking, and wonders what Dean would do in this situation. Probably attack him. Probably slam him into the wall, face-first, and demand answers. But Dean hasn't had the training Castiel has. And Castiel knows he could take Vince, in a fight, with the skills he has, but the OBIT made it clear. Fighting is not always the way. Sometimes there are sacrifices to be made. Sometimes, one must demean one's self for the good of the nation.

He has had practice for this too.

They made it clear. They made it so blindingly clear, and he dismisses what Dean would do here and now. Dean isn't here - Dean won't ever know. He won't know how Castiel found out the information he will find out - no, he will only hear that Castiel has succeeded on something, that Castiel deserves to be part of this unit, that they are equal partners and Castiel does his fair share instead of being a burden. Maybe then Dean will look at him differently.

"Anything," he tells Vince.

Vince's smirk grows and he slides a huge palm down Castiel's face, saying, "Come here, baby," before pulling him forward and forcing Castiel to go up on his tiptoes as he kisses him - hard and invasive, further than Castiel would want. Though, to be fair, Castiel doesn't want any of this.

_For the mission_, he reminds himself, and then sucks in a hard breath when Vince pulls back again.

He smiles again, darkly, then drops his hand down to Castiel's neck, to his shoulder where it rests for a moment before slowly pressing down, pushing Castiel to his knees. "Let's start here," he says. "Then you'll get what you want, I promise."

The ground is cold underneath Castiel's knees, and he sits there limply, not moving as he watches impassively as Vince quickly unbuckles his belt and then shoves his pants open, pulling his cock out and fisting it for a moment as he stares down at Castiel. It's enormous. "God, look at you. Bet this is your first time. Is it your first time?"

It is, but Castiel knows the concept, has gone through worse, and he nods silently, immediately rewarded with a loud groan. Maybe Vince'll finish without even needing Castiel's assistance and he can get the information and leave, dignity intact.

Except his dignity was destroyed a long time ago. And Vince is reaching out, getting a grip in Castiel's hair and pulling his head up and towards him, his breath growing louder as Castiel slowly opens his mouth and then Vince forces his way in and groans again, hand tightening. "Little cocksucker, fuck, come on, open more."

Castiel's mind goes blissfully blank.

It was always like this - in his training. Able to black it out as soon as it started, able to focus on something else - anything else - other than the smell and the sound, the dirty little grunts as Vince thrusts shallowly into Castiel's mouth. Saliva pools in his mouth, slopping down his chin, and he can feel a few hairs give way to Vince's hard grip in his hair.

_Think of something else._

Dean's face blooms in his mind. It's only been a little over month but already he is changing everything Castiel thought he knew about adults. About people, about kindness.

"Come on, come on," grunts Vince, his hips moving at a more brutal pace and Castiel is finding it difficult to breathe.

Dean asks him what he wants to eat. Introduces him to new music. Dean sometimes stares at him when he thinks Castiel is unaware.

"Yeah, take it, you little fucker," growls the older man, and then he's forcing his cock in so far that it hits the back of Castiel's throat and he stops there, head tossed back and his breathing ragged as he forces Castiel to stay there - until Castiel can't breathe, can't even try to think, and he rips himself off, choking and gasping, tears burning his eyes.

"Hey, hey," a hand is on his face, touching the tears, thumbing at his swollen lips. It is this slight moment of tenderness that makes Castiel want to vomit more than anything though, this faux gentleness that makes his stomach tighten in revulsion. This is not kindness. This is nothing Dean would ever do to him.

"Come on," says Castiel, his voice wrecked.

Get this over with, get through it. Just like every other hurdle he's faced. This is not the worst thing that's happened to him. There will be more to come.

And he will get through.

He will survive.

* * *

The crowd is throbbing, fluctuating around Dean like it is one thing, like everyone is connected except for him - an isolated figure in a sea of music and drugs and lust. He can't find Castiel, but there's been no text; he'll assume nothing's happened, for now.

Because he's so close to actually getting somewhere on this case for once, he can almost taste it. A part of him wants to ask how much further but he's not a child on a roadtrip - he's an FBI special agent working with a possibly illegal minor on a supernatural case involving drugs and he's very, very close to a break-through.

The man leads him to a door with a guy standing next to it in a dark jacket and sunglasses (_Who wears sunglasses inside? _wonders Dean. _Douchebag_.) and they exchange a few words before the guy nods and both Dean and his companion step through the door into a darkened hallway.

Doors line the hall, but Long Island ignores all of them, only glancing back when they pass by one where a very particularly loud scream comes from it. "Some of our customers like to ingest the, ah, product right away. And, as I'm sure you know, a higher sexual urge is one of the many side effects people desire."

"Classy," comments Dean, and Long Island smirks and then faces the front again.

People are taking it right here and now? It's no secret that Grace addicts tend to OD more than any other drug - one of the main reasons it's illegal among the other obvious reasons. That means that any number of medical emergencies could happen here at any second and Dean is entirely unable to assist any of them.

_For the mission_, he reminds himself, and then comes to an abrupt stop as he realizes that Long Island has disappeared. It takes him a moment to realize that he's only gone into the closest room and Dean looks back over his shoulder once before moving inside, thinking only of the gun tucked in the back of his jeans and just what Castiel might be doing right about now.

"McLean," says Long Island once Dean's entered. "This is Azazel. They call him Yellow Eyes."

He doesn't look too yellow-eyed to Dean, but he simply nods hello at him and then keeps his distance, waiting for Long Island to speak further.

"McLean wants a vial," he says. "Knows JD."

"A full vial?" asks Azazel, appraising Dean with a critical eye. "That's going to cost you some high end money there."

"I have it," says Dean, and then reaches into his pocket and pulls out the folded wad of cash. "Name your price."

Azazel purses his lips, studying him. Then, "Two thousand."

His eyebrows lift. "For a vial? JD says your stuff is good. He doesn't say it's two thousand good."

"It's the price you're getting it for," snaps Long Island. Dean is liking him less and less. "Don't question it."

"It is unlike anything your friend has ever tried," assures Azazel, and when he tilts his head just so, his eyes flash and his smile looks taunting.

Dean looks in between them for a long moment before looking down at his wad of cash and slowly thumbing out the right amount. Even if he wanted to incarcerate these two sons of bitches for selling it, he can't. He won't. They're just the first, the smallest stepping stone in this game they're playing, the smallest river to cross. He needs them, if only to get to the higher ups. It is a delicate game of who is trustworthy and who is not which means paying up when he needs to pay up. He doesn't want salesmen; he wants manufactors.

Silently, he hands over the money.

Azazel doesn't even bother counting it but instead tucks it into his dark jacket and then gestures for Long Island who turns and silently disappears into another room. "Procedure is procedure," says Azazel, flashing another smile. "You understand."

"Of course," says Dean, keeping eye contact for a moment before he turns and looks around the room. It's all black, simple, with few furnishings other than the black oak chair Azazel is sitting on. Easy to get rid of evidence, easy to disappear from and never return. He's sure that they'll never come back to this particular night club again; it'll be a different one tomorrow night and a different one the night after that.

Dean taps out an anxious rhythm against the side of his leg, the throbbing music a distant memory in his bones, and then twists as the door opens and Long Island walks back in and hands Azazel something and there it is. A glass vial full of electric blue liquid that almost seems alive within its casing. The light shimmers and breaks, bursting into a thousand bubbles in the tiny capsule before becoming still again as Azazel holds it, listening as Long Island leans in and mutters something into his ear. Hardened eyes flicker up, impatient. "How soon?" he asks.

"Soon," says Long Island.

"Is there a situation?" asks Dean, pressing his hands behind his back to keep from reaching for the Grace. No need to appear too eager.

"Nothing that concerns you," says Long Island.

Azazel, however, seems to take Dean in for a second time. "JD knows you, hmm?" he asks, and then, "It appears one of our customers who indulged in the product immediately is going into seizures. It doesn't seem as though she will last much longer."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Dean shifts, slipping his hands in his pocket and keeps his expression blank. "That's unfortunate," he comments. Maybe he can - if he calls the police or ambulance - suddenly Dean looks down. "If someone dies of Grace here, won't the FBI be here within the next day?" He's going to lose this. He's going to lose this fucking lead.

"We'll be long gone by then, McLean," says Azazel, and when Dean looks up, he's studying the vial in his hand with a curious smile. "As I told you before, this product is better than anything else on the market. Some people simply cannot handle it. We are not responsible for their lives."

God, Dean wants to slit his fucking throat. "Someone might come tonight. Soon. Who knows what might happen or who will notice."

Azazel lets his eyes flicker up, latching on Dean and staring him down hard, his expression neutral and his lips thin and his eyes flat. "Then," he says, and his wrist twitches, the only hint that he's about to move before he tosses the vial up in the air and Dean jerks out to catch it before it hits the ground, "I suggest, Mr. McLean, that you take that somewhere else. Good day."

"I -" begins Dean, but that's it, he's done, and his eyes jump to Long Island as he shifts forward threateningly. "Thank you for your time." Ridiculously, he thinks of bowing for a moment before he simply turns and walks out of the room, closing the door behind him and staring down the darkened hallway for a moment.

In any number of these rooms, there is a girl dying. Helplessly, hopelessly, and none of these sick bastards give a rat's ass.

"Fuck," says Dean, pocketing the vial and glancing at the door behind him. If he gets caught, that it's, he's out. He's either going to get shot or his face will be detailed and he'll never work undercover ever again. But there's no way in hell he's about to let another girl die on his behalf.

Moving swiftly, Dean storms down the hallway, throwing open doors one after another, and thankfully none of them are locked because he has a time limit on his heels and a life in his hands. No one seems to notice the intrusion - hell, half of them are laying on the bed looking unconscious or worse, but he heard the words 'girl' and 'seizure' and he has no time for the rest. If he could, he'd arrest all of these kids and throw them in a rehab center and let them sweat out the withdrawal symptoms on their own.

"Come _on_," he says through gritted teeth after what feels like the fifteenth door and no dying girl. "Back up would be a _real help_ right about now -" and then he bursts through the next door and comes to a frozen halt, staring at the girl on the bed gasping for air. Her whole body is shuddering and her eyes are wide and staring, her mouth frothing.

"_Please_," she chokes out, her hands iced claws on the bed as she arches up and lets out an ungodly sound.

It breaks Dean. "Hey, hey," he says urgently, rushing forward and gripping at her sides, sliding his hands up to cup her face and feeling her shudder and shake underneath his touch. "You're all right, you're fine, come on."

All his training for this moment has fled - and Dean panics, looking wildly around the room before cursing loudly and scooping her up in his arms, holding her tightly against his chest and turning back to the door. She's whimpering and her skin is turning an unhealthy shade of white - and he's not going to make it.

"Come on, sweetheart," he says, and then suddenly he's back out in the middle of the hot, overcrowded dance floor, and it feels like everything's moving too fast for him to keep up with. It's going to be fucking Jo all over again - his fault, his fault, his fault - "Where's the _fucking _door?"

"Woah, man," says someone as Dean pushes forward. "Chill."

"Fuck you," snaps Dean, and he keeps moving, despite the fact that he can't see in the thick fog, the fact that he can't breathe with the bodies crowding around, despite the tinkling noise of glass crunching underneath his fact, despite the fact that the girl is now heaving with no air passing her lips. "God, _God_," he says, like it's a prayer, and then suddenly Castiel is there.

"Dean," he says. "I found out -"

"She's _dying_," shouts Dean, his voice cracking and he can't hold her seizing body any more and he drops to the floor right there in the middle of everyone. It takes Castiel a moment to catch up and then he's right there kneeling next to Dean, looking solemn as he reaches out and touches a hand to the girl's ice cold forehead.

"The Grace is too much for her," says Castiel.

"No shit," says Dean. "We have to get her out of here, she's not going to make it -"

"Dean," says Castiel, and he's never looked older, his skin colorless in the flashing lights ahead and the shadows of the people around them dancing. "Open her mouth. Hold it open."

"What are you going to do?" shouts Dean, but he moves to comply, pulling her so that her head is in his lap and he winces as she spasms, one of her arms catching him in the stomach. The fight in her's getting worse which means the end is coming - the peak is nearing, they only have minutes, if that.

"Hold her still," says Castiel, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a bottle of pills. His hands are unbelievably firm as he snaps open the lids and pours out three pills and then shifts closer, leaning over her body and forcing the pills into her mouth. "Close it," he orders, and Dean does.

Her body convulses, tightening up and then abruptly going still. Too still.

"She's dead," says Dean.

"She's not," Castiel says. "Wait."

They're both sitting there in the dark with people moving on all sides and some shitty song blaring overhead, staring down at the lifeless form of some drug addict and Dean starts to shake his head, tears welling up in his eyes out of pure frustration. Always the fight, always the struggle, never the win. "She's gone," he says.

Castiel presses his lips together.

And she gasps to life, eyes opening wide and staring past them as though she sees something they cannot. Then her eyes turn towards Castiel and she whispers, "You," before collapsing again, but at least this time she's breathing.

"You fucking did it," says Dean in disbelief, lifting his eyes to Castiel.

"I merely stopped her heart from failing," he says, fingers moving to take her pulse. "She still needs hospitalization. Dean, I learned -"

"Later," interrupts Dean, shaking his head. "Later, man. We've got to get out of here. We've still got a cover to keep and," he pauses, the words _it's past your bedtime _dying on his lips as he looks at Castiel and reconsiders him. "You did good tonight, kid. You saved a life. Whatever else happens, there's always this."

Castiel stares at him, his eyes burning in the night. "Dean, they're using real angels for this. It's not just Grace-touched objects any more. They're kidnapping angels and siphoning it directly out of them."

It's like a lead weight has all of a sudden landed in Dean's stomach and he stares back, unable to comprehend these words for a full minute until, "Shit," he says. "Just what we need. No longer just a drug ring, it's fucking human trafficking." Something's niggling at his mind, a faint nuisance, an irritating little voice that tells him something else is wrong, something he's missing - and then his mind flashes back to the feel of glass being crushed underneath his boot and his hand flies to his pocket, his whole body contracting in horror as he feels an empty pocket. "No - _no_, shit, no -" he closes his eyes, ignoring Castiel's confused look.

The world is suddenly ten thousand times darker.

* * *

**A/N: **Please review; I feel really iffy about this one and would love to know what you guys think.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"She's going to be all right. Not awake yet, but should be sometime soon. No, don't get up," says Dean, walking towards Castiel with two styrofoam cups in his hands. He holds one out to Castiel who stares at it for a moment be accepting it quietly and staring down into the murky depths; Dean stands there a second before sitting down in the hard, plastic chair next to him. "You saved her life, you know."

"You said that before," says Castiel, not looking away from his coffee. His ears feel hollow without the constant thump of the bass in them, his bones feel heavier. "But you have to know something, Agent Winchester. If it compromises the case, I do not know if it was worth it."

Dean's silent for a long moment and then slowly lifts his cup to his lips and takes a sip. "Hospital coffee is always shit," he says. "But. Yeah. I understand where you're coming from. You see the big picture, and that's important. But you still saved a girl's life tonight, whatever happens. Agent… Novak."

It's the first time Dean's called him that without another person nearby and Castiel finally looks up, staring at him. A faint blush tinges his cheeks and he takes a sip of his own coffee and then looks down in surprise. "I don't think this is bad at all."

Dean laughs, a low rumble that sinks into Castiel's spine. "That's because yours is hot chocolate."

"Oh."

They sit there in silence. And then, "Cas, I was panicking pretty bad back there. I think you saw that."

Castiel bites the inside of his cheek and goes still when he feels Dean's jacket drag alongside his arm as the man next to him leans back in his chair. "You did your best, Dean," he finally says when it seems like Dean isn't going to go on any further.

Dean sighs. "If that's my best, then I don't deserve to be anywhere near the FBI. I screwed up, Cas, and we both know it. I lost the product and nearly exposed us and almost did it for nothing -"

"But you established yourself as a buyer with the dealers," Castiel interrupts and then flushes. "I'm sorry, I didn't -"

"No, see," says Dean urgently, leaning forward; when Cas looks over, he freezes at how intently Dean is staring at him. "You have ideas, Cas. Good ones, too. You got far more intel than I did and you saved someone's life. I haven't been treating you like an actual partner this whole time and that was - that was my mistake. I was wrong to treat you like a child when you're so obviously not."

"Dean, it's fine -"

"Please, Cas," and Castiel stops. Dean looks away and then takes another small sip of his coffee, clearly forgetting what it tastes like as he grimaces again. Dean says, "I want us to be equals."

Castiel says, "Okay," hesitantly.

"No." Dean looks back. "Don't just say 'okay,' and then not change anything. When you have an idea, Cas, you need to speak up and say it. That's how partnerships work. You can't be afraid to interrupt me if you think I'm wrong and you can't be afraid to stand your own ground. Don't get me wrong - we're still a team. We still have to work together. But it's _we _this time, all right?"

Castiel's gripping his styrofoam cup too hard - and all of a sudden it breaks, splintering open in his hand and sending lukewarm hot chocolate spilling down to the pristine floor below. "Oh - oh," he says, holding his arm out away from his body, unsure of what to do.

"Hey, it's okay," says Dean, immediately getting to his feet and holding an arm out to keep Castiel in his seat. "I'll go get a towel - stay right there; don't worry about it."

Castiel just sits there as Dean leaves and he frowns down at the mess, his head a confused swirl of thoughts. Equals, Dean said, which is what he'd fought for this whole time. Except Director Roman had made it more than clear that Castiel was never to consider himself an equal to anybody, particularly an agent. His mouth ached, lips swollen from Vince's roughness earlier. Dean hadn't asked yet how he'd gotten the information. What if he does? Will Castiel lie? He feels sick.

Lost in his own thoughts, he barely notices when a crying woman came up to him; it's only when she says, "Excuse me?" for the third time that he notices and jumps up, stammering out an apology. "No - no, please don't apologize," she says, blotting a wad of toilet paper at her eyes. She's an older woman, heavyset, with dyed red hair. Not attractive, but her eyes are kind beneath the sheen of tears covering them and there's something in her movements that speaks of comfort. "Are you - are you the one who saved my daughter?"

"I -" begins Castiel and frantically looks around for Dean, unsure of what to say. Are they still undercover? But she's starting to cry again so he finally nods jerkily and says, "Yes. That was me. I was… lucky to be there." He starts to lift up his hand before he remembers that it's still covered in sticky hot chocolate and blushes. "I'm sorry."

"S-Sorry?" she asks, eyes welling up again. "No, you have nothing to be sorry about! I - I don't know what I'd do if you hadn't been there, Agent -?"

"Novak?" he says, like it's a question. "No, I'm sorry I can't shake your hand but," he gestures helplessly.

"Oh! Oh, do you need me to help you clean it up?" There is something that brightens inside of her as she asks this question, as though it would be utter delight to help him.

"Um, no, my… partner went to get something to clean it up," he says cautiously. "So. Um. Your daughter is going to. Be all right?"

"Only thanks to you," she says in a trembling tone. "Can I… would it be all right for me to hug you?"

"My -" he lifts his hand up again and she shakes her head immediately.

"I have four children - trust me, I've had more hot chocolate spilt on me than I've probably actually drank in my life. But - would - can -" Her eyes are a question that's never been asked to him before.

"Sure," he says awkwardly, and then holds his arms out away from his body. It occurs to him that maybe he should do a better job of hugging her back than he did with Charlie.

She takes him into her arms, engulfing him with her width and gratefulness; thankfully her tears have stopped, but there's something else about her as she crushes Castiel that sweeps over him like a wave of sorrow, pulling him in and drowning him in grief. This, he imagines, is what it might feel like to almost lose a child. To actually lose a child. It is the deepest darkness.

"Thank you," she says and then she pulls back, mopping at her face with her toilet paper, a breathless laugh escaping her. "I'm - so sorry, I didn't even tell you my name. I'm Trinity Blackwood, and - and you're just a boy," she says suddenly, like it's just now occurring to her.

Castiel stands straighter, abruptly self-conscious. "I'm twenty-two, ma'am, they assign me purposely to these cases because I look younger and can escape notice." It's the cover story he'd been assigned for questions such as these. "If you'll excuse me -"

"Oh, no, no, I didn't mean to offend you," says Trinity, holding a hand to her mouth and looking horrified. "Please - I just wanted to thank you for what you did. I can't… I can't imagine. What it would be like without her. I'm sure you have someone in your life that you couldn't bear to lose, and that's Sarah for me. I just… I never wanted her to go down this path," she whispers, looking ashamed. "I tried so hard to keep her from drugs. But eventually, it gets to a point where you can't do much else."

Castiel looks at her solemnly, studying her. "Do you know where Sarah got access to it? Exposure?"

Trinity starts to shake her head and then pauses and looks away, anxious. "She… she doesn't tell me much. Not any more. I've only found out what I have through looking through her stuff." She shoots him a desperate look, one that begs for understanding. "I'm only trying to keep her safe."

"That's our main aim as well," says Castiel, but he remembers what he'd just told Dean, five minutes prior, and tries to shake it off. "Anything at all would be helpful."

"There was." She starts and then stops and looks nervously over her shoulder before stepping closer to him and lowering her voice. "A man, that my daughter was friends with. There used to be a crowd of them until it dwindled down to just Sarah and this boy. He was young, but." Something fearful flashes through her eyes.

"But?" Castiel prompts.

"There was something about him. He's involved in it somehow, I know he is. His name was Andrew Glass."

Castiel presses his lips together. Here is a worried, paranoid mother who dislikes a boy in her daughter's life - who may or may not be connected to the case and whose real name may or may not be Andrew Glass. He hates himself for hoping. "Is there anything defining about him? Anything that stands out?"

"He had brown hair," says Trinity doubtfully, as though she can tell this isn't what he's looking for. "And… about twenty-three? Maybe. And - oh! He had a tattoo, on his wrist."

Castiel freezes.

"Yes, it was in some sort of other language - Chinese, maybe, or Arabic, I could never tell. I asked him about it once, just trying to be polite, you know, but of course he avoided the question…"

"Enochian," he whispers.

"I'm sorry?" says Trinity, blinking at him. "What did you say? I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help, but - oh." She cuts off as Castiel turns abruptly and fumbles for a moment before spotting a pad and pen on a nearby table, picking it up and thrusting it towards her.

"Can you draw it?" he asks. "Please. It's okay if you can't remember it exactly. Just the vague outline will work."

"I can try," she says, taking it from him and then giving him a sideways look. "I'm not much of an artist, you know."

"It's fine. Anything will work. Please, this is very important."

Trinity stares down at the pad of paper for a moment, brow creasing thoughtfully, and then drags the pen along it a few times, clearly concentrating hard. "Something… like…. this," she says, and finally holds it out.

Castiel accepts with a murmured thanks and then stares down at it, long and hard. "You're sure?" he finally asks. "You're positive this is what it looks like?"

"I remember asking about it," she nods. "And I definitely remember this part here because I thought it looked like a horseshoe. Maybe it was for luck or something."

"Thank you," he says absently. "Maybe you should go check on your daughter again…"

"I will," she says in a fervent voice. "Thank you so much. I just - yes, I'll leave you to it." Anxiously, she turns to leave.

He's still staring at it when Dean finally appears at his side, dishrag in hand.

"Got it," says the older man, and then pauses when he sees Castiel mouthing something to himself. "Cas?"

"It's different, Dean," he says, lifting his eyes and staring at him. "Another Enochian tattoo, but this one's different."

"What does it say?" asks Dean immediately, a serious look coming into his eyes.

"It says…." Castiel shakes his head, unable to understand it. "To falter."

* * *

Bobby calls them in two days later, after Dean finally gets around to writing out a report and sending it in.

"_Fuck,_" says Dean, after he reads the email. He and Cas are in his rarely-used office for once, and he covers his face with both hands for a moment. "God damn it, Bobby."

"What is it?" asks Cas from the other side of the desk. He's been patiently combing through old profiles of known dealers for the last couple of hours, looking for more tattoos. Without looking up, "Do we have another lead?"

"No, no lead," says Dean. He's fruitlessly resisting the urge to sulk and failing miserably. "Bobby wants us to stop by his office."

"Oh," says Cas, and finally looks up. He doesn't look perturbed by this idea in the slightest. "Okay. Today?"

"Yes, _today_ - and you clearly have no idea what we're in for, otherwise you would have left the room screaming," replies Dean, scowling. "I mean, you don't even look mildly _bothered_ right now. Come on, Cas, have some self-preservation."

"What exactly are we 'in for'?" asks Castiel. He sets aside the folder he was working through and folds his hands, watching Dean with a patient expression - like Dean is being _overdramatic _somehow.

"We're about to get reamed by Bobby Singer, that's what. You think he's happy with what we did? Hell no."

"We did save a life," Castiel points out. "And we learned more about the case."

"We also let a dealer slip out of our hands. And we dropped the vial full of product."

There's a deafening silence as Castiel looks down at his hands, pressing his lips together.

"What are you - oh, _come _on," says Dean in disbelief. "You're saying _I _dropped the vial?"

Castiel stays pointedly silent.

"Well, I mean, I _did_, but that doesn't mean I should have to go get yelled at by myself - would you stop looking like that?" Dean demands.

"Like what?"

"All innocent, like I have no reason to be yelling at you right now - all right, whatever, come on, let's get this shit over with," says Dean crossly, getting up from behind the desk and storming past the teenager. Of course, he doesn't actually have a reason to be mad at Castiel, not really, but there's something about Castiel's quiet little, "Yes, Dean," as he follows along that makes Dean think the boy might secretly be laughing at him. And secretly laughing at him is worse than actually laughing at him, because at least then he really would feel dignified in snapping at Castiel. Being so-called equals isn't turning out as well as he thought it would.

The drive is tense.

At least, for Dean it is. Castiel seems absolutely unfazed. "Why isn't he in the same building as us?" he asks halfway there. There's still something about him that seems faintly amused.

"He's the director of our department, so his office is with the big dogs in the FBI headquarters."

"Oh. That makes sense."

"Bobby's not too proud of his position, though," Dean feels the need to explain. "If it were up to him, he probably wouldn't have an office at all. Makes it convenient for when he wants to shout at us, though."

"Does he do this often?"

Dean makes a face. "Not really. But that makes it all the worse when he actually does. Just wait. You're acting all chill about it now, but when you actually have to face it, you won't be laughing as much."

"I doubt it will be the worst punishment I've ever faced," says Castiel, and damn if that doesn't make Dean just instantly feel like an asshole.

"Yeah, well," he says grumpily, and leaves it at that. Bobby's office is on the ninth floor of the building, and once they pass through clearance, they head straight to the elevators. Dean fidgets with his suit on the way up, tugging to get the bottom of his jacket straight, and then sighs as the doors slide open. "Time to face the music," he tells Castiel who just looks nonplussed.

"What music?"

"Oh, Cas," he sighs, and leads the way to Bobby's office. Down a hallway, through two doors, arriving finally at a shut door that holds a plaque with Bobby's name on it. Dean hesitates for a moment before steeling himself and knocking lightly on the door.

"Yeah," comes the gruff reply.

"Hello!" says Dean cheerfully as he opens the door and pokes his head in. "Plaque's new. Where'd it come from?"

Bobby looks stiff and uncomfortable as usual in his dark rumpled suit; he'll always look out of place in formal clothes to Dean, who will continue to picture him in plaid and a trucker cap for the rest of his life. Now, however, he looks even more surly than usual, his eyebrows turned down in a scowl. "Bradbury thought she'd be funny and do it when I wasn't here."

"That Charlie," says Dean, forcing a grin. "Such a trickster."

"Are you coming in or not?"

Dean coughs, and avoids the presence hovering at his back. "About that… I'm sort of on a time crunch, so maybe it'd be best if we did this over the phone later…"

"Get your ass in here, Winchester. You too, Novak, don't think I don't see you hiding behind him."

Sighing, Dean pushes the door further open and comes in, eyeing the two rickety chairs available and aiming for the less-squashed of the two. "Right then," he says once he and Cas are both seated. "What's this about?"

"You know damn well what it's about," says Bobby, glaring at them both - although his gaze is definitely more locked on Dean. Maybe Dean should give his 'we're equals' speech to Bobby as well. "Losing the product and the dealer? Almost breaking cover? Explain, Winchester."

"Remember when I used to go by Dean?" he asks instead, aiming for a nostalgic smile. "Remember when you used to call me 'son' and take me out for ice cream? Those were the days."

"Remember when you knew how to do your damn job without constant supervision?" Bobby replies sharply, looking even more bad-tempered. "I wouldn't be saying this if I didn't have the OBIT breathing down my neck twenty-four seven, but you have to know that I send your reports directly to Dick Roman, Dean. And he is not going to be happy about this at all."

"What was I supposed to do, Bobby?" asks Dean, abruptly exasperated. "Just let her die? I had more important things on my mind than keeping one stupid vial of Grace safe. And Cas got us intel anyway - tell him, Cas," he adds, looking to his partner.

Which might have been a bad idea. For all his silent amusement earlier, now he looks a bit terrified to be put on the spot in front of the director of the department. "Cas?"

"Um," says Castiel. His hands grip the armrests of his chair tightly. "R-right. Right. I learned - that is, _we_ learned…" Bobby's eyebrows creep towards his hairline and Castiel flushes. "That they're no longer just getting product from Grace-touched objects. But directly siphoning from angels. The product - we can assume it was freshly produced. So the implication is… that, that the girl overdosed due to a newly strengthened product taken in the immediate area, fresh from the source. Which is highly problematic due to…" he trails off.

Bobby looks at him a moment longer and then looks to Dean wordlessly.

"He's saying that the dealers have angels. Live angels. We're talking angel trafficking now," says Dean, then frowns. "It was all in the report, didn't you see it?"

"I stopped reading after I got to the part about what great screw ups you two are."

"Nice."

"You're saying that we're shifting this case from solely drugs to human trafficking?" Bobby demands. "That you _know _without a _doubt_ that these dealers have some angels tucked away?"

"Either they have the angels, or they're in direct contact with whoever does," Dean says. "I'm telling you, Bobby, when they looked at how much stuff was in this girl's blood, there was no way she should have overdosed, unless it was of a more powerful brand. The main problem we have is that we don't know how many angels they've got, the name of any missing angels, where they're keeping them, or how to get any of this information."

"You're in a pickle all right," says Bobby, frowning. "A great big angel-trafficking fucking pickle."

"What if we found out which angels were missing?" asks Castiel, looking wide-eyed and shocked at his own nerve of speaking up. He may have agreed to be Dean's equal in the hospital, but he has been whipped into submission one too many times for it to happen over night. There is a cowering boy beneath the strong fighter and quick thinker, a boy that has been told over and over that his own opinion is worth nothing. Dean smiles at him now, hoping to give him encouragement, expecting nothing, but somehow it works. Under his gaze, Cas looks stronger.

But then Bobby speaks again and that strength instantly disappears. "And how exactly do you propose we do that, boy?"

Cas shifts awkwardly, hands still digging into the cracked leather of the seat. "We could contact known angels… and see if they know of any other angels that are missing? Maybe they know of unregistered angels that we don't know about. Once we got ahold of who was missing, we could track where they were last and hopefully get a lead on their location that way."

It's surprisingly a good idea. "I'm for it," says Dean. "Can't hurt to go check it out. If that doesn't work, we'll just find another way to track them. Maybe Charlie has some ideas."

Bobby looks in between the two of them for a moment before sitting back in his chair and sighing deeply. "Fine. Do that. Finding these angels is your new top priority, got that? Get them alive, and soon, and we can forget all about the mess you've made in Michigan. Now get out of my office."

Outside, Dean grins. "That actually wasn't so bad. Good work, kid."

Castiel gives him an unreadable look. "Do you think we'll find them in time? The angels?"

"With your brains and my brawn? We'll have them home safe and sound in no time," says Dean easily. That earns him a quicksilver smile and warm eyes; maybe, just maybe, Dean will one day be able to vanish the cowering boy for good. He thinks he'd like to hear more of what Castiel has to say.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Am listening to "For the first time in forever" from Frozen as I post this... feels weirdly appropriate for Cas somehow at this point in the narrative. Am now imagining Cas as Anna and Dean as Hans. I see nothing wrong with this.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

"So this belongs to… Gabriel Milton," reads Dean off the file in his hand, squinting against the glare of the sun.

"Fancy," comments Castiel.

"No shit. Wonder if he gets any special bonuses for being a registered angel?"

"Is that information available to the public?" asks Castiel, glancing sideways.

"Well. No." Dean reaches up and rubs a hand against the lower half of his face and then looks as though something's occurred to him. "But maybe he's got some high class government job where they know what he is and give him special bonuses for it."

"Is it available to all levels of the government?"

Dean shifts. "I - no. It's not. It's only available to like. Three divisions, and one of them's the OBIT so it barely even counts because no one even knows the OBIT division exists. And no one knows that the Supernatural division exists either. All right, I get your point," he scowls. "Bastard's rich of his own doing."

"Who said that was my point?"

"Stop asking so many questions," says Dean impatiently, brushing this off. "Come on, we've been standing out here way too fucking long - and I'm sure he's gone some kind of high class camera trained on us right now, listening to everything we say."

Gravel crunches underneath their feet as they walk up the extravagant pathway to the front door looming in front of them, crystal and ornate. There's foreign plants on either side of the pathway, and ivy arches up the side of the house which is made out of a material Dean couldn't name if he tried. Fancy doesn't even begin to describe it.

Dean rings the doorbell and then they both stand back, tugging on their suits. He looks over - and then makes a frustrated noise, stepping forward and leaning in to adjust Castiel's tie. "Highly unprofessional," he chides, and that's when the door opens and Gabriel Milton stands there, staring at them both.

"I didn't hire strippers," is the first thing he says and Dean steps away from Castiel, ears burning.

"Hello, Mr. Milton? I'm Agent Winchester," he pulls his badge out from his inside pocket and lets it drop open, holding it out for a moment before flipping it close and putting it back, "and this is my partner, Agent Novak. We're here to talk to you about some of your - potential relatives."

Gabriel looks at him and then at Castiel. "What, no badge for you, pipsqueak?"

"Oh," says Castiel, and both Dean and Gabriel watch him for a moment as he fumbles for his badge and then holds it out, closed, like a silent offering.

Dean sighs. Looks at Gabriel with serious eyes. "This is very important, Mr. Milton. Not just to us - but to the rest of your _kind. _If you catch my drift. Your own safety might depend upon it as well."

He's wearing striped shorts and a white wife beater with something red staining his face, like some great child, but at Dean's words he drops his mildly intrigued look and immediately grows irritated, looking formidable even in his casual outfit. "Ah," he says. "And I suppose I'm just supposed to let you in, then? Otherwise you'd probably just find an excuse to arrest me."

"We would never," begins Castiel, but Dean quickly waves him off. Clearly, Castiel hadn't heard about some of the rougher cases.

"It would save us some time, yes," he tells the angel.

Gabriel examines them both one more time before sighing and holding the door open. "All right, come on in, I guess."

They follow him down a marble hallway and in through two different rooms before he opens the door a third time and reveals a simpler room - a living room - where two half-naked girls are posed on a leather couch, giggling and licking whipped cream off each other.

"Oh, yeah," says Gabriel, sounding as though he's just remembered something. "I _did _hire strippers. Well."

"Hey," says Dean gruffly as he abruptly notices Castiel's wide-eyed stare locked on the scene at hand. "Stop that. Don't objectify them."

"I wasn't!" protests Castiel quickly and then clamps his mouth shut as the two women seem to notice him.

One of them grins wickedly. "Did you bring us one to break in, Alfonzo?"

Dean doesn't think he's ever seen Castiel look so mortified before. He doesn't know whether to shield Castiel from their prying eyes or laugh hysterically or point out that Gabriel's name is _definitely _not Alfonzo. Instead of doing any of those things, however, he just stands there.

"Sadly not, ladies," says Gabriel extravagantly and walks forward, leaning in to talk confidentially with them both.

Dean and Castiel look at each other.

"Pimp," says Dean.

"Drug lord," Castiel counters.

Dean lifts his eyebrows wordlessly.

"Something other than Grace, obviously. Cocaine."

"Meth?" Dean frowns thoughtfully.

"Whatever it is, it's definitely illegal."

"And yet, his first reaction to seeing two FBI agents on his doorstep is to say he didn't order strippers. Amazing."

Castiel looks suddenly struck. "Maybe he's struck a deal with someone - he can continue his illegal affairs if he provides information on angels. Wouldn't have to worry about us at all then, because he's already got unbeatable security."

Dean snaps his fingers and points at Cas. "I like the way you think, sonny."

Castiel frowns. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

Suddenly Gabriel is back in front of them, looking highly unamused with his arms crossed and lips pursed. At least he's put on a bathrobe sometime in the last five minutes, and now Dean sees that both of the girls are gone. "So now that you two idiots have completely ruined any chance I had of fun on a Tuesday night: what do you want?"

"Tell us which angels are missing," says Castiel.

"Well, you get straight to the point, don't you?" asks Gabriel, looking at him as though seeing him for the first time. He stares at him for a moment, tilting his head, and opens his mouth as though he's about to say something before: "First, a drink. Let's go."

It's another follow the leader moment with Gabriel going first and then Castiel and then Dean who finds himself studying the teenager walking in front of him. Still scrawny, still on edge around strangers, but he seems a little more sure of himself since their talk in the hospital and he's shooting Dean more and more half-smiles and cautious smirks and wary little jokes. It's addicting, in a way, watching Castiel leave his shell behind.

They end up in some sort of wine cellar, ten degrees cooler, but it's not wine that Gabriel pulls off a shelf but something harder. He pulls out three glasses and offers one to Castiel first, who shakes his head.

"Underage," he explains.

"And working with the FBI?" Gabriel asks, looking to Dean.

"Talent doesn't have an age limit," Dean says.

"Hmm," says Gabriel noncommittally and then holds out a glass to Dean who takes it out of politeness. He pours a healthy amount for Dean and then for himself and downs his in all one go before looking back and forth between them blearily. "So you want me to rat out my species, is that it?"

"Not rat out," says Dean, not taking a sip out of his own glass. "Ask around. We need to know who's gone missing recently. Mr. Milton, I know you've helped our department before, back in," he glances down at the file in his hand, "1999. I see you helped break open a case. We need your assistance again."

"That was a long time ago. Returning a favor."

"Your assistance would be - incredibly appreciated." Dean's always been shit at sucking up to people on cases, but doing it to an angel is just the icing on the cake.

Gabriel sneers and pours himself another drink. "Doesn't your agency have all the angels registered? Clearly _my_ location's been locked. Just go check up on all the rest."

"Not everyone is registered," points out Castiel. "And this is a time sensitive case. There are hundreds of angels and only a few agents who are privy to the information of who is who."

"Ah," says Gabriel, clicking his fingers together and then wiggling his finger around in the air. "Bingo. Hundreds of angels. And do you know how many there _used _to be?"

"Millions," says Castiel, and Dean remembers he's an expert on the subject.

Gabriel's looking at him again, studying him. "Far more than you will ever understand. They had their hierarchy, their own rule. They were a species to be respected and fear. And now what are they?" He scoffs. "A fairy tale for children."

"We are trying to ensure their survival," says Castiel solemnly.

"You must know of the drug?" prompts Dean. He sets his forgotten drink down on an empty shelf.

Gabriel scowls and pours himself another glass. "Humans taking what isn't theirs again and fucking it up. Not my concern if your kind are killed by consumption -"

"It's not just taken from Grace-touched objects any more," Castiel interrupts. He looks determined. "They've found a way to get it stronger; they're siphoning it directly from the angels themselves."

Gabriel freezes. "What did you just say?"

Dean says, "It's true. And we know there are several angels being held alive just for the purposes of creating more of the drug, but they can't last for very long. They're taking too much."

"How do you know? How do you know _any _of this?" Gabriel growls.

"We know," says Castiel. "That's all that matters. We're trying to save them."

Gabriel looks down into his drink and then knocks it back in one gulp and turns to the side, shaking his head. "I can't help you."

"Can't help us? Can't help us fucking save the lives of the species you just spoke up for?" Dean asks, and he feels cheated, angry, like he wants to shove Gabriel against the wall and force the information out of him, no matter what it takes. "We're running out of options here."

"Can't?" asks Castiel quietly. "Or won't?"

"I won't," Gabriel snaps, looking sideways with flashing eyes. "You're asking me to look up people I haven't spoken to in years - and I'm sure you feds have my phones tapped and will swoop in to register whoever I talk to as soon as I'm done helping you fuckwits do your _job_."

"This is bigger than you, you conceited asshole," begins Dean angrily, but a hand on his arm makes him stop.

"What exactly is so wrong with being registered?" Castiel asks, and then gestures aimlessly around them. "You are, yet it hasn't prevented you from getting the money to -"

"Wait - don't you know?" asks Gabriel. There is a wild light in his eyes when he looks at Castiel now, stepping closer and cocking his head. "Don't you feel it?"

Castiel blinks, glancing at Dean and then back at Gabriel. "Feel what?" and Gabriel laughs.

"Oh, you _fool_ - you pathetic -" He's sneering again, caustic. "Your whole life has been nothing but one big catalogue, with those filthy scientists taking notes on your every piss, your every shit - you haven't done a single thing that they don't know about in that lab of theirs, and you're wondering why someone wouldn't want to be _exposed _to that?"

Dean lifts a hand up, a warning look already on his face, but Castiel steps in front of him, closer to Gabriel. "They don't test the angels," he says in a low voice. "They would never -"

"Oh, _wouldn't_ they?" says Gabriel dangerously, and he looks mad in this light, utterly cracked. "You don't think they're planning something in that lab of theirs? They claim to be the protectors of this great nation of ours - but _quis custodiet ipsos custodes?_" he says, the Latin rolling off his tongue easily before he looks at Dean, eyes glinting. "Who will watch the watchman? Who will be there when the _OBIT_," said scathingly, "gains too much power and strikes out with it?"

"We will," says Dean quietly, chin jutting out. "We will always fight, no matter who the opponent is, to keep the people safe. But right now, the OBIT is not our concern, and the drug ring is. And the drug ring is holding onto several live angels - but they're not going to remain that way for very long without every bit of information available. We _need _to know who they have."

Gabriel stands there for a moment, seemingly taking this little spiel in, and then once more lets his eyes rest on Castiel. "Foolish," he whispers. "To stay with him. To stay with all of those who torment you so. You've been let out of your cage, little bird - _fly_."

"I have a duty," says Castiel firmly - and is that a hint of anger in his voice?

Gabriel turns away, pouring himself another drink, and swallows it down. Back to them, he says, "Get out," so quietly Dean almost can't decipher it. And then, louder, "Leave. Don't come back here."

"They'll die," says Castiel.

Gabriel throws his glass down on the floor and it shatters hard enough to make both agents flinch; he whirls. "_Leave_."

They're almost at the stairs when Castiel turns around, his eyes hard. "You're a coward."

Gabriel laughs again and it is chilling; he is a short man wearing a bathrobe and high white socks and shattered glass around his feet - but there is something in his eyes that speaks of danger. "Fly away, little bird," he calls, his voice echoing around the cellar. "Fly far, far away before they clip your wings forever."

They leave.

* * *

"Tell me about your father," says Castiel the next day on the way to another angel's house. He can tell it's a mistake immediately - Dean tenses up in the seat next to him and his knuckles turn white against the black steering wheel. But Cas doesn't take it back. Once, he might have. Not today. He's trying hard not to think about what Gabriel might have meant back in his dimly lit cellar.

"What do you want to know?" asks Dean carefully.

Castiel looks at him for a long moment and then out the front window, settling down in his seat and letting his head fall back to hit the headrest. "Everything," he says.

Dean takes in a slow breath and seems to consider this for a long moment before he says, "One time he got incredibly drunk and told me I looked like my mother. That was the only thing he ever really said to me about her, and it was the highest compliment I've ever received. He also didn't look me in the face for a week straight after that."

It is a sensitive topic, Castiel sees that now, but he can't seem to stop himself. "He loves you?"

"In… his way, he did," says Dean slowly and then frowns. "Cas, why the sudden interest in my paternal rearing? Got a school project or something?"

"I just," says Cas, and he can't seem to get it out. He thinks back to that first night, when Dean let him sleep in his bed and wound up holding him in the middle of the night. He swallows hard. "I just want to know what's it like, that's all. To have a dad. I never had one, see."

"Oh," says Dean, and then, "Oh, Cas."

"Don't," warns Castiel.

"Cas."

"It's - nothing. I just wanted to know that's all. But you don't have to tell me." He turns his head now to the passenger window, expecting Dean to reach out and turn up the music, let the drumbeat swell over the awkwardness hiding in the console, gathering in the bottom of their lungs.

Instead, there is a long silence, and then Dean sighs again and mutters something to himself and says, "It's not like in the movies, all right?"

Castiel looks at him sideways. "I haven't seen very many movies."

Dean laughs humorlessly. "No, I don't suppose you have." He takes a hand off the wheel to run it over his short hair. "What I mean is, sometimes when you're a kid and you don't have something, you tend to make it out to be something amazing, yeah? Like, wow, if only I had that one thing, I'd be so happy - yeah?" He glances quickly at Castiel and then away again once he realizes how intense Castiel's stare is. "But it's not. Not all the time. Sure, there are moments. I have good memories. But there's a lot of shit that goes with as well. Especially when you have… my dad."

He seems to think he's said too much and presses his lips together, but Castiel isn't quite satisfied, not yet. "Tell me a good memory," he presses.

"I don't," begins Dean and then looks over once more and holds his gaze for a few burning seconds. He blows out air and looks away. "My dad really loved baseball."

"Baseball," Castiel repeats.

"Please tell me you know what that is."

A quicksilver smile flits over his face. "Yes, Dean."

"Thank God, I was about to suffer major heart failure if you didn't. All right. Well. My dad really loved it. I think he even played it in high school and maybe even after, when him and Mom were together. But after she died - arson -" A shadow crosses his demeanor and Castiel wants to drag it away. "They never found out who did it. Anyway, that was when he got transferred from the Civil Rights department to OC and… he lost a lot of his former habits."

Castiel says, "I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean presses his lips together and doesn't say anything for a long moment and then says, "This is supposed to be fucking happy. All right, all right. Okay. Well, you know we moved around a lot as kids, right?"

"Right."

"So it was hard for Sam - Sam and I to do any sports, because as soon as we started to make enough friends for a neighborhood team or tried out for a school team, we'd move again and have to start over. Eventually it just got easier to just not try."

Maybe Dean actually doesn't know the definition of 'happy memory'.

"Except this one time, I remember. Dad was working on some long-term case in North Carolina and we were stuck in some God-awful little town - but it was summer and I was fourteen, and I miraculously had free time. It had to be the last summer where I didn't have to work. All I had to do was watch out for Sammy, which was second nature at that point. Anyway - somehow, amazingly, I got in with these kids really quickly and they needed someone to create two even teams and so for the first time in my life, I got to play on a team."

Castiel is staring at Dean and he doesn't even care - doesn't even bother thinking about social norms, about how he might be making Dean uncomfortable, about anything. All he can think about is that this man is beautiful, that this man deserves so much more in life than what he got. Castiel wants to give it to him just then - everything in life he has missed out on, everything he ever wanted - and he can't, can't do any of it, and it makes him feel so incredibly small. So very little. He has been forced into demeaning situations of every kind, he has had his entire life picked out for him from what meals he ate to what clothes he wore - and yet he has never felt more helpless than in this one moment listening to this one happy memory.

Is this how Dean feels listening to him sometimes?

"So I'm on this team for about three weeks, and my dad finally figures out that I'm spending a whole lot of time doing something that he doesn't know about and he finally asks me and I tell him, expecting him to yell at me -"

"Why?" asks Castiel.

"Why?" Dean has to think about it for a moment. "I don't know. It's just what he did. If something went wrong, it was usually my fault and the way he got me to fix it was by yelling. He always wanted me to be productive - you know, working towards a goal, like he always was."

"What was his goal?"

"Finding the arsonist that killed my mom, I s'pose."

Not being a parent. Not loving his kids. Castiel has been holding onto a secret bitterness his entire life over not having parents and it is just now occurring to him that it was hard even with them. Feels a bit shocking.

"So - so imagine my surprise," says Dean, and now the corners of his mouth turn up and that's when Cas knows, despite all that Dean's father may or may not have done, that he loves his dad, very much, "when we have a game and he shows up, completely unannounced. He was the only parent there - I don't even know how he found out about it. But he stayed there the entire time and afterwards he took me out for ice cream, just me, and discuss the entire game with me in detail. Best day of my life."

"Did your team win?" asks Castiel, his own lips quirking up into a affectionate smile.

Dean thinks for another moment and then laughs, loudly. "You know? I don't even really remember. You'd think I would, but I honestly have no idea. Huh."

"Where's your father now? Do you talk to him a lot?"

The man next to him shifts slightly. "He died. About six years ago."

Out of all the topics Castiel could have possibly picked, and it's this one. "Dean, I'm -"

But Dean shakes his head, anticipating this. "Don't say you're sorry. Seriously, don't."

"How did he die?" Castiel asks instead.

"In a car accident." Dean sighs. "Stupid bastard. Drunk, driving on a highway - it was his own damn fault. I'm just glad he didn't take out anyone else with him; instead he just wrapped his car around a tree and that was that."

To anyone else, it might sound caustic or heartless, but Castiel's spend more than enough time with Dean Winchester to see underneath. "Do you miss him?"

A lopsided shrug. "Sometimes. I mean, holidays can get kind of shitty, with no real family around to yell at and get lousy, last-minute gifts for. But -" he glances at Castiel. "I guess you understand that. What do they do for you over there at the OBIT during holidays anyway? I'm betting not much."

"'Not much' might be a bit of an overstatement," says Castiel. There's something in him that still cringes at speaking out against the organization - like even now, after all this, Dean still might be testing him to see if he's loyal - but the rest of him feels almost relief to say it out loud. "On Christmas, we were expected to beat at least one of our past records from last year, and if we didn't, we were given these pills that -" he breaks off.

"That did what?" asks Dean after a moment.

"Kept us awake for forty-eight hours."

"Oh," says Dean, like he expected something worse. "That's not… too terrible, I guess."

"If often led to… vivid hallucinations," says Castiel uncomfortably. Relief or not to get it out of his head, he still despises how much it bothers Dean afterward - like its his fault, somehow, that this has been done to Castiel.

But this time, Dean chooses not to comment further on it. "What record did you beat last year?"

"Running my mile. I went from 5:23 and 3/5 milliseconds to 5:22 and ⅘ milliseconds."

"Holy hell, Cas. That's incredible."

Castiel looks over, something warm growing in his chest. With the light splayed across Dean's face in this way, he looks even more handsome than usual, cheekbones in high contrast with the rest of his face. "You really think so?"

"Cas, the day I run less than a nine minute mile is the day I give up Krispy Kreme forever. And that's never fucking happening, either one." Quick glance over, his eyes catching hold of Castiel's for the briefest moment before he's looking back out the windshield. Even that quick glance is enough to make Castiel break out in one of his rare smiles, ducking his head slightly to hide it. Or maybe it's the admiration in Dean's voice, the praise that Castiel has so rarely heard. Or maybe it's the sunlit backdrop behind Dean.

"Hey, this year, you won't have to do any of that shit, right?" asks Dean suddenly, like it's just now occurring to him.

"Unless they've changed their policy, which I highly doubt -"

"Well, you're spending the holidays with me, aren't you?" Dean says it like it's already a done deal. "I mean, if that's cool with you."

"I -" He doesn't know what to say. "I, Dean -"

Dismissively, Dean says, "If you're worried about getting in trouble, I'll just tell them that I'm working straight through the holidays and I need you there; it's my case, they can't protest to that. It'll be totally cool."

He feels overwhelmed. "I don't want to impose…"

The agent rolls his eyes. "Impose on what? Me eating Chinese food by myself in a hotel room? Cas, man, you're doing me a favor by not letting me be a lonely old man on the holidays. Give it a rest." And then he turns the radio on loud, signalling the end of the conversation.

The warm feeling has now sunk deep into the pit of stomach like warm embers, the glow suffusing his entire body with heat. If he was waiting for a sign that Dean actually does like him - not just tolerate him or accept that they're partners but _like _him - then this is it. Dean invited him to spend the holidays with him. Thanksgiving and maybe if that goes well, Christmas too.

He feels a wide smile tug at his lips and turns to stare out the window.

Sometimes it's okay that he didn't have parents. Sometimes, the promise of a brighter future is enough to suppress even the darkest past. The image of the sun framing Dean's face doesn't fade in his eyes for a very long time.

* * *

**A/N: **Reviews are Castiel not spending holidays alone!


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Dean announces, "I don't believe in psychics," and leans back in his black leather chair, tossing a paperweight up and down in the air.

Castiel looks at him from his corner, where he's been leaning against the wall for the past thirty minutes. "You believe in angels, but you don't believe in psychics?" His voice rings skeptical.

"Who says I believe in angels?" demands Dean.

Castiel suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, despite the fact that Dean isn't looking at him and hasn't for a while now. Still, old habits die hard and OBIT subjects do not roll their eyes. They also don't speak out of turn, but Castiel has an inkling that Dean rather likes it when he does that. He's learned the hard way that Dean is an entirely different being than the men he's used to. "Well, you are working on a case concerning the species. And you're part of a highly selective few that were told about them."

Dean twists in his chair and points the paperweight at him as though he's spoken a vital truth. "There you have it. Ten out of ten says government conspiracy."

"That," says Castiel, "is completely ludicrous."

"Still better than Eminem," says Dean in what is an obviously joking voice.

Castiel stares at him.

"You're right, that was horrible. I'm ashamed. The psychic is a much better joke than that'll ever be."

"You are such a confusing man," Castiel tells him. "And if you don't believe in angels, then why are we consulting a psychic that you also don't believe in to find out where they're being held?"

"Because," says Dean, back to tossing the paperweight aimlessly. He spins his chair in a circle and throws the paperweight up and somehow manages to still catch it, timing the action perfectly. "My handler says I have to, and I do what my handler says. Also, I'm getting paid for it. Also… We have no other leads. Because Gabriel was a little shit and so was Balthazar and so was Raphael. Also, angels are dicks."

"_Also_," says Castiel, "it's because you secretly think she might be legitimate."

"Why can't you say legit like everyone else?"

"I can find no legitimate reason to shorten that word," he says primly.

"Prick."

"So far being called your equal has consisted of having my language under constant scrutiny and being called various male body parts and I am experiencing difficulty finding any benefits to this whole 'equality' thing."

"Being called various male body parts and having your language under constant scrutiny _is _the benefit," says Dean, sounding affronted and pausing in his antics once again to look over at Castiel. "What else is there?"

"Your humor frightens me."

"Ditto to that trenchcoat."

"And the psychic says… _no_ to quitting your jobs as FBI agents and starting up a talk show," says a dry voice from the doorway of the office. "Although you're not doing such a smashing job with the FBI thing either, so maybe it's to the streets for the both of you."

Both Dean and Castiel jerk in surprise, Dean fumbling with the paperweight, barely catching it, and Castiel pushing off the wall to stand straight as they stare at a cuttingly gorgeous woman wearing black sunglasses and a challenging smirk. Castiel is immediately reminded of a female Gabriel. "Can't see your faces, but from your voices it sounds as though you could charge a pretty price. Especially if you pair up."

"I'm sorry, who are you?" asks Dean in a mildly annoyed tone. It would be worse, Castiel knew, if she hadn't been at least an eight on Dean's shallow scale of attractiveness; as it is, the tone of voice falls somewhere between when Castiel drinks the last cup of coffee and when he tells Dean to wear a seatbelt.

"Dean, I think she's the psychic," he says cautiously, respectfully dipping his head before her comment catches up to him. "Are you blind?"

"Castiel," says Dean sharply, but the woman holds up a hand.

"There is someone here… who I feel strongly." She turns her face towards Castiel and a small smile lands on her lips, less caustic than before. "Yes. I'm blind. The blind psychic - quite the cliche, don't you think?"

"I'm sorry," Castiel tells her.

"What's your name?"

"Castiel Novak."

"Ah," she says, like this means something to her. "The young soldier."

He looks to Dean, mystified, and only finds a narrowed-eyed, suspicious gaze locked on the psychic.

"What about you?" she says, now turning her head towards Dean. "Got a name, sweetheart?"

"Winchester," says Dean gruffly.

She smiles slowly. "Got a _first _name, Winchester?"

Dean shifts in his chair and then throws his paperweight once, twice. "Dean."

"Mind leading me to a chair, Dean?"

It's a ploy, and Castiel knows it - and he's sure Dean sees it too, because if she'd managed to find her way all the way to Dean's office, surely she'd be able to find herself a chair that's two feet in front of her, blind or not. But Dean doesn't say anything, merely gets up and walks around the desk and holds out his arm, allowing her to grip it tightly - and Castiel frowns as her hand slides up his forearm, slowly as though she's mapping out the muscles there.

"These chairs are terrible," she states as soon as she's sat down, and she seems to enjoy making them both feel uncomfortable, her grin growing. "Now, you two boys got an angel problem?"

"I'm sorry, did you have a name?" asks Dean. "Or is Blind Psychic good enough?" He seems to be taking the prostitute-comment a tad bit harshly, but then, anyone commenting on Dean's sense of humor (other than Castiel, it appears) is always taking a risk.

"Oh, sorry - I would have thought your handler would have told you that when she arranged the meeting. Pamela Barnes," she says, leaning back in her chair. "But I've been called a few other things in my day as well."

"Is accurate one of them?" says Dean.

Pamela laughs softly. "Well, I guess we'll just have to see about that."

"Let's get started, shall we?" Dean glances once at Castiel and then moves his chair to the edge of his desk, flipping open the file they've collected. "We know there are several angels being held for their Grace somewhere in the northeastern United States. The way we know this is due to a recent OD patient who had taken Grace only hours old - and because the product was delivered in Michigan, we can assume that it was siphoned somewhere either in Michigan itself or in one of the surrounding states."

"Well, I'll need something that's physically connected to the angels," says Pamela, tilting her head to the side. "What are you looking for? A pinpoint location?"

"If you can manage that."

"It's an artform, not an exact science," and now her voice is crisper, more to the point. Fun and games are over, it appears. "Sometimes I get a location. Sometimes I get something different. I can't pick and choose."

"Convenient," mutters Dean under his breath and Castiel can immediately tell she's noticed by the way her head turns just the slightest amount and her lips turn down.

"Ms. Barnes," he begins, hesitating as her attention switches to him. "I - know it's difficult, controlling your gift. Not many have it, and it can often be as much of a curse as a gift."

Dean is staring at him, eyebrows slowly lifting, but Pamela looks somewhat consoled and that's what matters. "It's just - important. You see. For us to to get to these kidnapped angels as quickly as possible. Because there is simply no way for them to be drained as much as they are and survive for long. Their Grace takes far too long to regenerate, if it does at all, and…" Castiel trails off, losing his steam. "And your help is greatly appreciated."

The room is quiet for a moment and then Pamela nods. "Thank you. It may be difficult for me to control the Sight, but there is a reason your handler thought to call me. I am one of the best there is."

"Let us hope so," says Dean, sounding less aggravated than before. He almost looks… subdue, which has to be a first. "For the angels' sake."

Another beat. "The object?" Pamela prompts.

Dean and Castiel exchange looks and she seems to sense this, shifting and then straightening in her chair. "You do _have _an object for me, correct?"

"Well," says Castiel, but Dean waves him off.

"Yes, yes. It's just - well," and he makes a face before bending under the desk and there's the sound of scuffling - and a curse as he shifts too quickly and knocks his head on the bottom of the desk and then he's up and placing a shoe gingerly in the middle of the desk. "There it is," he says, after a second, seemingly remembering she can't see.

"Describe it," she demands.

Dean sighs. "It's - well - it's a - shoe." A pause. "My shoe, that is."

Pamela says, "That explains the smell then," and Castiel instantly likes her that much more.

"You wanna talk smell, you should smell Cas's morning breath," says Dean, earning an instant glower from the seventeen-year-old.

"Sure thing," says Pamela and grins coyly. "Tomorrow morning work for you?"

Castiel's starting to like her less. Dean's grin says the opposite. "She's quick," he tells Castiel.

"Not as quick as prepubescent pretty boy over there will be," says Pamela, jerking her head towards Castiel who immediately wants to melt into the floor.

Dean chokes, flustered. "All right, all right, enough talk. Back to the - ack, okay. It's a bit complicated from here. See, we had a… test vial of the product. The same one believed to be taken by our OD patient. Unfortunately, there were a few. Incidents. That led to its destruction and - well, yeah, I stepped on it, so the shoe's covered in which should be enough for a psychic read, right?"

He says this last part all very fast; Castiel's eyes are glued to the hot flush creeping up his neck. He doesn't know if he's ever seen Dean flush before. Interesting.

Pamela looks disgruntled, an odd look after all her smirks. "You're asking me for an exact location when the object I'm working with _may _have been touched by Grace that _might _be from the angels we're searching for?"

Dean rubs his neck. "... Well, Charlie _did _say you were the best."

"You're asking for a goddamn miracle, honey," says Pamela, and she pushes up her sunglasses for a moment to rub at her eyes, the cloudy whiteness making Castiel's head tilt for a moment before they disappear from sight again. "God," she sighs, "do I deserve a whiskey and a strong man."

Dean and Castiel glance at each other with solemn looks and then Castiel mouths _you first_. Dean's reaction is almost enough to make Castiel break into laughter but he's had too much training to allow that - instead, he merely ducks his head to hide his smile and then straightens up and looks back at Pamela. "Well?" he asks. "Can you manage it?"

"I can try," she says, looking grimly determined.

"Do you need the lights dimmed?" asks Dean after he's gotten himself under control. "Candles? Special sigils written in blood on the walls?"

She gives him an unamused look. "Well, for one, I'm going to need you stop your smartass comments, Agent Winchester."

Dean makes a face. "Anything else?"

"Yes," she says and then grips her chair and drags it up just the perfect amount so that she's close to the desk. "Join hands."

Dean and Castiel look at each other again and then, slowly, they grip hands and Castiel holds one of Pamela's, her other one moving to rest lightly on top of the shoe.

"Don't make a sound," she says in a warning voice, and all goes silent. "Close your eyes."

He knows he should be paying attention - but Dean's hand is warm in his, just the tiniest bit damp, and Castiel knows his own hand is getting sweaty from nerves - but that doesn't seem to ruin it at all. His eyes are closed and he sees them holding hands walking down a road together - holding hands across a table as they wait for their food - sees them holding hands as -

"_Focus_," snaps Pamela, making Castiel jump, eyes flying open. "No distracting thoughts."

"You can hear our thoughts?" whispers Castiel, terrified.

"I can sometimes sense the moods in the room and if they're not _calm_, then it's easy for me to get distracted," she says. "And both of you idiots are completely off task. No wonder these assholes haven't been caught yet."

Castiel pointedly does not look at the man next to him and instead focuses his thoughts hard on justice.

"That's better," says Pamela after a moment, and the room goes deadly silent again. Castiel can hear two separate sets of breathing beside him and he closes his eyes again, feeling his heartbeat gradually begin to slow as the air in the room thickens.

And then Pamela takes in a sharp breath and it begins.

"I invoke, conjure, and command you," she says. Her hand tightens against Castiel's. "I invoke, conjure, and command you. Reveal your secrets to this circle."

Nothing happens, and then she takes another harsh breath and: "I invoke, conjure, and command you. Reveal your location to this circle. Reveal your names. Reveal -"

She goes stricken, and when Castiel cautiously opens his eyes, he sees her arching against her seat, head thrown back, the veins in her neck taut against her skin. "I - see - it," she gasps out, and then she jerks her head wildly and her glasses go flying off. Her hand is shaking against Castiel's - her skin is starkly pale - and her eyes are wide open and glassy white. Tears stream down her face, but she doesn't seem to notice. "Bodies. So many of - them."

"Bodies?" demands Dean in a low voice, leaning across the table and gripping her forearm with his. She shudders. "What? How many? Where are they?"

"They are -" She sucks in a harsh breath and then chokes. "Naked. _Ravaged_. One is little."

"_Pamela_," says Dean in a low, furious voice. "Look _around_."

"Signs. Signs on them," she whispers, horrified. "Pen. Pen. Pen."

"Cas, get her a fucking pen," snaps Dean, and Castiel breaks his aghast gaze away from her and scrabbles around to jerk open a drawer. He fumbles for a moment, heart racing as Pamela shakes and moans, and then he's ripping the drawer right out of its socket and dropping to the floor, springing back up a moment and shoving a pen into her clawed hands.

"Paper," says Cas, and then spies a pad of paper and shoves it underneath her waiting hand.

She makes a strangled noise, her eyes darting back and forth in her head as though seeing something that's not there - and then she drags the pen against the paper, carving deep strokes into with shaking hands.

"Enochian," says Castiel.

Dean says, "Fuck. Shit. What's she writing, Cas?"

"I can't tell," he says in a ragged voice, planting his hands on the desk and feeling his stomach go weak. "I don't - it's -"

"Dean Winchester," says Pamela abruptly in a bone-chilling voice, dropping her pen and looking straight at Dean, straight in the eye.

Castiel can't breathe.

"What?" asks Dean, looking between Castiel and Pamela. "What? What is it? I'm - _tell me_, what is it? What do you need?"

"No," says Castiel in a hollow voice. "Dean Winchester."

"_What_?" demands Dean loudly, slamming his hands down on top of the desk.

Castiel shakes his head once, unbelieving. "You said these were on the bodies?" he asks Pamela, his stomach clenching hard. "Like - written on them?"

"No," says Pamela, and she finally looks like she's back to herself. "Not written. Carved."

"Carved," repeats Castiel weakly.

"Why were you saying my name?" Dean says again.

"Because," says Castiel, and the words lodge in his throat, unable to get it out. "That's what the Enochian is. Your name."

"Carved on them," says Dean, and he looks like he's about to throw up. They all do. "My name. Carved on them. How - many?"

"Six," says Pamela, and shakes her head, looking raw and uncomposed as she reaches up to wipe her face. She's crying. "If those were the angels you're looking for, you're too late."

"It's -" says Dean, and he puts his face in his hands for a moment, shoulders tight as he seems to draw everything within himself - he is a tightly wound spring, he is a hurricane in a bottle - and then all of a sudden he's up out of his chair and knocking it into the wall without noticing it, shouting, "God _damn it_!" before storming to the door. He rips it open and then slams it shut on his way out, the frame rattling loudly.

The air feels heavier without Dean there.

"Pamela?" says Castiel quietly after a moment.

She tilts her head towards him silently.

"You said one was - little?"

"They were all too young," she says lowly. "But. Yes. One of them looked… under ten."

Immediately, he wishes he didn't know. Hadn't asked. Wasn't picturing it. But there it is, ingrained in his mind forever - and he can only imagine how Pamela must feel, having seen it firsthand. "I'm sorry that you had to see that."

"I'm sorry that it had to happen," she says, and stands up, not hesitating a stroke as she turns and heads for the door. He feels empty inside, devastated. It is only when he doesn't hear the door open and close that he looks up, surprised to see her standing at the doorknob. "Do your job right, Castiel. And take down those sick motherfuckers."

He doesn't know what to say, but she doesn't seem to expect anything - merely nods and then leaves, the door clicking shut quietly behind her.

And Castiel is alone, staring down at the Enochian symbols used to spell out Dean's name - wondering what it all means, wondering how they will possible defeat this endless mystery.

* * *

"_Hey, it's Sam. Sorry I couldn't get to the phone; leave a voicemail and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."_

"They're using kids. Fucking angel kids to get their fucking Grace from and then fucking murdering them."

He's sitting in the Impala by himself, head pressed against the top of the steering wheel, eyes tightly shut and body hunched over as if maybe if he shrinks down enough, the world will cease to exist.

"Sam, I don't know what to do about it. My name. My _fucking _name carved into their chests - why the hell would my name be there? What is it, some kind of message? Some sort of sign that I'm next? Or maybe it's a mockery - another kid's life that I couldn't save because I'm too goddamn slow, too bad at my fucking job to get there quick enough."

It feels like he's about to snap the phone in half - like _he's _about to snap in half, just break into two. There's nowhere to go from this, nowhere to turn. And it's not just the dead and captured angels that are doing this to Dean - no, it's the millions of people that are wasting their time and money and capabilities on the fucking drug, getting high and getting addicted and not giving a shit about anything else in the meantime.

"And then - Cas, God," he groans into the phone, rolling his head from side to side against the wheel before falling still again. "What the hell's wrong with me, Sam? As if he hasn't had enough bad luck in his life - now I can't stop thinking about him - and it's so hard when half the time he doesn't act his age at all, but like he's seen more shit than half the people my age -" He lifts his head up just barely and then thunks it down against the steering wheel.

"Sam, I don't know what to do about this case, and I wish you were here to figure it out. Or I could at least talk to you. Answer the damn phone sometime." A strangled, choked laugh.

"I guess I know what you'd say. You'd tell me at least we managed to save one life, the girl - but _we _didn't, it was all Cas. And then you'd say we got the lead when we found out they were using siphoned Grace. But - again, just Cas. What the hell am I doing, Sam? I'm fucking - useless," he wants to curl up as he says it and never leave the Impala, never leave this safe place talking on the phone with his little brother. There are people to save, but someone else can save them, and things to do, but he isn't capable of doing them anyway.

"You should have seen him fighting. So much better than I expected. I - honestly, I underestimated him so much. Which makes it even harder to stay away, God. He's like a force of nature, something I'll never fully understand. If anyone gets this case open, it'll be him, I swear -"

_Beep_.

He presses his eyes shut and then opens them up and clicks on his phone, dialing Sam's number again -

"_Voicebox full_."

"God dammit," he mutters, and clicks his phone off again.

It is a long time before he gets up the will to move.

* * *

It doesn't take long for Garth's intel to come through a second time, and that, along with some reports of suspicious activity in a small town just outside of Warren, Michigan, gives Dean and a group of agents the go-ahead to make the long trip up to investigate. It is a short search through the dreary town and then Dean is watching as Agent Wright throws his weight against a crowbar to open up the door to a dilapidated old house, grunting hard from the effort. It wrenches open with a loud creak and then the group of four steps inside, one after another, each one of them repressing the urge to gag as the smell hits them. Their guns are up only as a formality because everyone is nearly positive the scene is empty of anything directly Grace-related.

"Rancid," comments Agent Mills, the only one who's reached up to cover her nose with her flannel sleeve. After a moment though, she seems to gather herself and draws her hand down, expression hard and carefully blank. "Bodies."

Wright looks hardened and furious, despite being younger than Dean. "They fucking left the bodies here of us to find. Fucking pieces of shit."

Dean wants to walk right back out of the decrepit house, wants to find the sick bastards that did this - all to send a message to _him_ - and tear them apart like he did to Alastair - he takes a deep breath to steady himself and then immediately regrets it as the sick, sweet stench of death fills his nose and mouth, clinging to the back of his throat.

It's worse when he sees Castiel looking around the room, expression closed off and eyes clinical. Like he's seen worse, expected worse. Like the rank smell is familiar. "Come on," says Dean gruffly, and pushes past the others as he picks his way through the building.

Trash is everywhere; the blinds are all shut and it's dark and filthy inside, the smell growing stronger as they forage deeper into the building. There are needles everywhere along with rotting food, ripped apart clothes, broken lamps shattered on the floor.

And then - they stumble upon them, in the room farthest from the front door, and Agent Mills nearly steps on one before she staggers back and throws out a hand. "Shit," she says.

Wright stares at them with a horrified expression for all of thirty seconds and then turns on his heel and leaves the room in a rush. They hear the sound of vomiting a moment later, but Dean knows that it'll be lost in this mess of a house, just another stain on the otherwise bloodied carpet.

The bodies – there are six of them, just like Pamela said – are half-naked and crude, a blatant disfigurement in the natural state of the world. This should have never happened, this should never have existed. These six lives should have taken such very different paths then this one – this one in which all of them ended up in a room together with Enochian letters carved into their decaying skin. He can't read Enochian and he's glad he can't, couldn't bear to be able to read his name stretched out over the bodies of six strangers and one of them is – one of them is a child – holy fuck, one of them is _breathing_.

"Cas," he manages, hand flying to Castiel's elbow and dragging him forward in a clawed grip. "Cas – _look_, that one –"

"Impossible," breathes Castiel, and it should be.

Because it's taken them hours to get up here and anyone with that amount of blood loss should have died almost immediately – and they still haven't moved, frozen in shock, before Castiel gently untangles himself from Dean's grip and moves forward. He doesn't hesitate, goes right up to the little boy who is unconscious but still barely breathing, and kneels down right next to him.

A few seconds later, Dean hears an unfamiliar tongue roll off Castiel's lips – faint but musical, like he's singing to the boy. It reaches into Dean like nothing ever has before and grips something he has never felt – an emotion he cannot identify, and he realizes he's on the verge of crying. The room feels overflowing with an eternal sorrow and he tries to push it away, struggles against it.

"Castiel," says Dean, too loudly. "We have to get him help. We have to –" he turns to Jody and sees that she's crying silently, tears streaming down her face. "Call someone, we have to _fucking call_ –"

"He's dying, Dean," says Castiel, interrupting his unfamiliar tongue to look up at Dean. One of his hands is resting on the boy's hair, slipping in between dark strands. "He's lost too much. They won't get here in time. He's almost gone."

Dean can feel something hot prick at his eyes and something dark twist his stomach simultaneously – can't he save anyone? Why does he always have to be too late and not late enough? It is Dean Winchester's fucking curse to watch the innocent die before his eyes, again and again, always unable to help just when it matters most? It is his _job_ to save people and yet it always seems to end with him standing by helplessly and watching death wrap its cold hands around young lives.

As he watches – as they all watch, Castiel softly returning to his unfamiliar tongue – the little boy twitches and then shudders and then takes in one last gasp, body seizing up and his arm jerks out in a sharp flail before it drops back to the floor with a sickening thud that cuts right through Dean. He falls still.

A little boy. Younger than ten. Shirt ripped around him carelessly and chest carved wide open, his eyes halfway shut. Castiel stops speaking, and the silence that follows is more complete than anything Dean's ever felt in his entire life. Why? Why would this happen? Why brutally murder six angels if they were using them for Grace? Why Dean's name? _Fucking why? _

Fury is the only emotion Dean feels capable of in that moment. It overwhelms him, strangles him, erupts behind his eyes in a flash of red. He wants blood – wants to feel the blood of his enemies as he sinks his hands into their entrails and rip them out slowly, wants to feel the life drain from the sick bastards that did this – wants to see the light leave their eyes. And then wants to cut out their eyes a moment later and -

"This is useless," he snarls, shaking with uncontained rage. "This is all goddamn fucking _pointless_."

He wants someone to contradict him and when no one does, spins around and walks out. Leaving angry is beginning to become a bit of a recurring subject for him, it seems. They spend another hour digging through the house for evidence – except no one's willing to dig too deeply and everyone wants to avoid the room with the bodies – and then the crime scene attendants arrive to collect the bodies and take them to the morgue. Everyone is eager to leave.

"Complete waste of time," Dean declares it on the way back.

"It wasn't," Castiel contradicts quietly, from the backseat, and no one else speaks for the rest of the drive.

That night, Dean's the one waking up screaming. All of them – everyone he's ever had a relationship with, everyone he's merely talked to, everyone who's ever come in contact with him – stretch out before his eyes in a long line, all of them wearing his name carved deep into their skin, all over. Then they all wake up simultaneously, calling out to him in a foreign language – and he knows, in the dream, that they are asking for his blood – calling out his name and demanding he pay for their deaths. He can smell the stench of death around all of them, sickly sweet and pungent in his nose. Their dead eyes follow his every movement, and Jo is the very first in line. When he looks at her, she smiles, her lips pulling apart in a terrifying grimace.

"Dean," she says, the only one speaking in english.

The dread and anger and revulsion from before are twisting hard in the pit of his stomach as he stumbles back away from them, struggling not to cry. "I didn't do it!" he shouts uselessly at them. "I didn't kill you - it wasn't me! I didn't put my name there!"

His shouts are futile and they keep coming, keep coming, keep coming. Jo is reaching for him with decayed hands, twisted into claws, and he knows when she catches him, she will make him pay.

He jolts awake with the yell still coming out of his mouth.

Castiel is at his side in a second, reaching out a consoling hand wordlessly, and he doesn't seem to think anything of it as he slides a hand down Dean's face and then trails up, carding his fingers through Dean's sweat-drenched hair as his eyes stay locked on Dean's. He murmurs something in that same foreign language as before, the same language the people in his dream were speaking, and Dean reaches up, gripping his wrist and feeling the long fingers splay out comfortingly along the side of his head. "What are you saying?" he asks in a hoarse voice. "What language is that?"

Castiel's eyes burn bright in the darkness. "Enochian. I was telling you everything would be all right."

"And before? To the –" he can't say it.

Castiel cocks his head slightly and says, "It was a prayer. That someone would watch over his soul as it traveled to the afterlife, wherever that is."

Something occurs to Dean at that moment, something he's never thought to ask before and he drags Castiel's hand out of his hair, letting it go a second later. "How did you get the information, Cas?"

"How to speak Enochian?" A curious blink. "They taught me at the OBIT –"

"How did you get the information at the club? How did you learn that the Grace was different?"

The air in the hotel is hotter than usual, too hot, and Dean wants to strip off all his clothes but first he wants his question to be answered. Abruptly, it seems vitally important, crucial to his wellbeing. How could Cas have learned about it? It doesn't make any sense. The nightmare throbs in the back of his head, pulsing for attention.

"Did you overhear it?" he prompts. "Were people talking about –"

"I saw a man," interrupts Castiel. In an instant, he has transformed. Where before, the teenager looked concerned, now he looks distant and detached, eyes focused somewhere behind Dean's head. "Talking to the man in the purple vest, the one you told me to find."

"You saw a man," Dean repeats.

"Yes."

"And you listened in?"

"No."

There is no further input and Dean shifts forward on the bed, slinging his legs over the side and scooting closer to Cas in the same movement. "Cas –"

"I tried to reach the man in the vest, but they separated and all I could see was the first man. So I followed him, outside to an alleyway. He said his name was Vince." His voice is mechanical, in a way that adds an extra layer of horror to his story that shouldn't be there. He got the information in the end; he was successful. Dean doesn't know why dread is pooling in his stomach.

"And then?" he says.

Castiel's eyes finally slide back to meet Dean's, flat and unblinking. "And then he asked me to perform fellatio on him, and I did. And then he told me about the new way to extract Grace, using live angel subjects, and I left to find you. You know the rest."

Dean can't understand what he's hearing for a second. He wonders if this is still a dream – if soon Castiel will unbutton his shirt and there will be Dean's name carved on it, just like all the others – and then he swallows hard and gets to his feet. "You what?" he asks quietly.

Castiel stares at him without emotion. "I gave a man oral sex in order to obtain necessary information. I did my duty."

He doesn't know what to feel. He should feel horrified or protective or – or anything but instead all he feels is a blank white wall. He mentally reaches out for something, anything – and crashes into the tidal wave of rage left simmering from the brutal scene earlier. It is irrational to feel this, he knows, especially at Cas – if anything, it should be the OBIT's he's furious with, for programming an innocent boy to think this way – but when he looks at Castiel, it is coated with thinly veiled disgust.

"Disobedience," he says, and Castiel moves like the word has struck a chord deep within him.

"I didn't –" he seems to visibly restrain himself from speaking. His shoulders are rigid, jaw set tight defensively, eyes hard. Like a good little soldier receiving a rebuke from his commander.

Dean doesn't know what makes him think of the briefcase – the one he still takes inside every night, out of habit. He doesn't know what forces him to look Castiel in the eye and say quietly, "Wait here," before moving around him to pick it up and lay it on the table. He can barely remember the combination but when he tries it, it works, and suddenly he's staring down at four bottles of pills.

_For further obedience_.

It is unacceptable that Castiel would stoop to such a thing. And Dean may have never qualified that outright, might not have ever actually said the words, "_Hey, Cas, just so you know, if the situation ever comes up, don't give a dude a blowjob for information_," but to have a partner willing to do something like – no. It shouldn't have to be clarified. It shouldn't have to be said. He is tense with a rage that does not belong to him and a revulsion that is aimed at the world in general, at the men that sell drugs to innocent children and the men that shove their filthy dicks in place they don't belong and to the men that start wars and do fucking experiments on children, but none of those men are here right now and Castiel is.

He picks letter C. _C for Castiel. _Turning, he flicks open the cap with his thumb and gives Castiel a hard look. There is something wild and out of control fluttering just underneath his skin, beating in time with his heart, sludging through his veins like a poison.

"Here," he says, holding the open bottle out. It feels like he's bluffing and also that he's not. "Take it."

Slowly, Castiel moves forward and then lifts his palm up, accepting the two capsules Dean shakes out of the bottle. He stares at them like they're about to attack him, and then up at Dean like _he's_ going to attack him. "I won't do it again, Dean," he tells him.

"No," says Dean in a hard voice that he doesn't recognize. "You won't."

He pinpoints it then - knows abruptly where this feeling originated from, how it got here in the pit of his stomach, why it is so easily able to overtake him - and suddenly he is no longer with a boy, but in a dark, blackened dungeon with his partner on the floor and her murderer strung up before Dean. There is a knife in his hand and he knows he could rip him open - take that smirk off, dip it in red, hang it out to dry - and kill him fast, but instead he takes his time, moves slowly and listens to the screams with a sick enjoyment that pounds through him hard. He hadn't recognized his voice then either, when he was asking Alastair to scream louder, when he was asking if he wanted more, _you like that, you sick fuck? you get off on that?_

Blood dripping through his fingers as he dug into Alastair's bloody flesh - he remembers at one point cutting until he reached a rib and then continuing to cut, to saw away at it, obsessed with the idea of holding Alastair's heart in his hand. He wanted it to continue to beat the whole time, though, that was crucial to him - he wanted to feel it beat against his palm so that when he crushed it, he would feel that too.

They had to pull him away from the corpse. They had to nearly break his fingers to get the knife away from him. They had to lock him in a room by himself for four days until he was fit to see people again without laughing hysterically.

He only comes back to himself at the sound of wretched gasping and looks down to see Castiel on all fours, choking for air.

Abruptly, all his emotions are gone and he is frozen inside.

"Cas?" he manages to get out and reaches a hand out towards him, bending over. "Cas - Cas, oh fuck, what have I done -"

A heart-wrenching scream cuts him off, slicing him to the core as Castiel curls into a ball and screams. He's shaking, and when Dean finally gets the nerve to reach out and touch him, his skin is burning up. Dean is horrified. Why - why would he force a seventeen-year-old to take a pill he _knows _will be destructive? Created by the OBIT, of course it's going to be a fucking torture device. Dean is the lowest piece of shit on the face of the planet.

"Please - please - Cas," he says, and then remembers the briefcase. He runs to it and then stares down at it, pressing at the sides because there has to be some kind of antidote that came with it, _there has to be_.

Meanwhile, Cas is still choking behind him.

"I - _shit_," he says, and in a fit of rage sweeps the briefcase off the table. It crashes to the floor and all four vials spill out, spinning like crazy in all directions but still no antidote to be found - he turns back around and now Cas is dry heaving, not even throwing up just gagging pathetically over the carpet. What to do - what to do - he drops to his knees before Cas and reaches out - and then withdraws when Cas, even in his mangled state, scrambles away from him.

There's nothing he can do, he realizes then. Just wait it out. Just sit on the dirty hotel floor and listen to Castiel try to hold back in his screams - which is almost worse, in its own way, than actually hearing the screams. Listening to the whimpers and moans and jagged little gasps for breaths…

He waits. Hollowed-eyed and aching, he waits.

* * *

**A/N: **All right, so maybe you're thinking that it's a bit ooc for Dean to do something like that to Cas - but he has his reasons, I swear! You're just not going to find out why for a long time. Dean's human, please remember that. He makes mistakes, big ones. Hopefully the next chapter will make up for all this horribly depressing stuff.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

It only takes a couple of minutes for it to end, but it feels like hours.

Feels like hours of clenching his hands into fists, of struggling to keep from reaching out - knowing it will only worsen the situation. Feels like hours of just _listening_, of hearing every little sound that Castiel makes, of watching as he writhes in pain and then finally, finally falls still, curled up on the ground in the fetal position. Only three minutes have passed, and it's already over.

Still, even then, Dean can't seem to make himself move.

What has he done? What kind of person would do that to a _child_? He sits with his back to one of the twin beds, knees drawn up and head in his hands the entire time and if there is one thing in this life he regrets, it is this right here. Sick, twisted. Deranged.

He's ashamed of what happened with Alastair, no doubt about it. He turned into someone that truly deserved to be locked up, maybe kept in a straitjacket for the rest of his life - he knows this, he wears it around him constantly like a cloak. But at the same time, Dean has always recognized that Alastair deserved it. He'd been locked up for days at that point, been tortured in ways he'd never known existed - had seen his best friend and partner murdered, all for the purpose of turning Dean into Alastair's _pupil _or whatever the fuck was his reasoning - so yes, when Dean had sunk his knife into Alastair's skin for the first time and felt a feverish joy, he had excused it on the basis that, of anyone in the world, Alastair deserved it most of all.

But Cas? His innocent partner who has done all he possibly can to try and please Dean? _Cas?_

There's a terrible little thought that's been niggling at him throughout the whole process - squirming into his brain and refusing to leave him alone and that terrible little thought finally settles down in the forefront of his mind, heavy and despised and the harsh truth: _You don't want another man's hands on him._

Jealous. Is that what he was? Is that what this is about? If so, it's even worse than before. He's fourteen goddamn years old older than him - he's his superior, his co-worker, he's wrong wrong wrong in every way for Castiel. And he fucking hates the idea of someone else taking advantage of him.

_No_, says a snide little voice. _Because that's your job, isn't it? Your job to molest him. _

_I haven't molested him_, he argues silently back, which is thankfully true - but that doesn't mean if he was approached, he would turn it down. A willing Castiel… but no, he can't think of that now, guilt-ridden and self-resentful. Disgusted with himself. Imagining over and over the line of bodies with his name on them.

_A death wish_, he thinks. That's what he is. Anyone that chooses to be around him - that's all they ever get from him, in the end. A death wish, a bounty on their head.

What would Jo do to him right now if she saw him like this? If she heard the thoughts running loose in his head? Probably kick his ass for it. Definitely not feel sorry for him. First thing she'd tell him is, "_Fix this_," no question about it.

_But how?_ he wonders. _What do you want me to do?_

But Jo had never been one for giving solutions that easily; no, she liked to make people work for things, him especially, and in his imagination she merely gives him a hard little smile before wandering off.

Across the room, Castiel abruptly stirs and makes a weak sound that vaguely come across as, "_Water_."

He's up and moving before he can think, dashing to the bathroom to get one of the dusty glass cups the motel provides and filling it halfway before darting back out to crouch over the trembling boy. "Here - water, take it."

Castiel slowly twists up, reaching for it, and his eyes are bloodshot and puffy, like he's been crying hard. The glass shakes as he takes it, but it doesn't spill and he drinks the whole thing down in two long gulps, his throat working as he swallows. "More," he says, and doesn't look at Dean.

This time, he fills the glass to the brim and takes it to him a little more cautiously, handing it to him and then taking a step back as he allows the dark-haired boy his space. Castiel once more gulps it down and then places it on the floor and looks away, looking hunted.

He doesn't know what to say or if it's okay for him to even speak - and he stands back up, staring down at him for a moment. "Is… is it still hurting?" he finally asks.

"Please," whispers Castiel in a hoarse voice, not looking at him. "Please don't report me to the OBIT."

It breaks him.

"Cas - Cas, I'm so sorry, I swear I didn't know what they did, I swear I didn't know," says Dean desperately, stepping forward and then coming to an abrupt halt as Castiel scrambles backwards away from his, entire body tense and face fearful. Because what kind of monster does that? He knew the pills were from the OBIT - what else _could _they do, but inflict tormenting pain? And even if they had only produced a small headache, Castiel had only done what he'd done for the mission. For Dean, in his own twisted way.

And what had Dean done about it? Betrayed him. Punished him for doing what he thought was the right thing. Out of some sick jealousy.

"Cas," whispers Dean, and blue eyes flicker up to his, still wide with pain and fear. Dean's own beg for forgiveness, plead for reprieve. "Cas, please. Please just - " slowly he bends down, still a few feet away, and stares at Cas on his knees. "Please," he says again, like a mantra. He pitches his voice down low and soothing, like Cas is a wild animal with his hackles up. "I won't do it again. I'll never hurt you again. Cas, please. I'm sorry."

He shifts forward a tiny increment at a time, hearing each shaky breath exhaled and inhaled from the boy in front of him, and then finally he's close enough to reach out and touch him; he brings his arm up, his hand hanging in the air for a moment in a wordless question. Castiel stares at him, frozen with his arms wrapped around his legs and his shoulders hunched forward, and then closes his eyes, a silent acquiescence.

Dean touches his hair first - slowly drawing his fingers through it the way Sammy used to always crave, sliding his fingers through the dark strands. Castiel shudders at the first touch and then grows still, eyes tightly shut, body held tense.

"I'm sorry, baby," says Dean in a low voice, and doesn't stop. He strokes his fingers through Castiel's hair, dragging his fingers against his scalp slow and steadily. The tension in the air seems to dip a little, dropping just barely as the tension in Castiel's body lessens slightly. "Is this okay?"

A pause. Then, the slightest nod.

"Can I do… more?"

His breath catches in his throat at the question and for a second he thinks Castiel is going to draw away - but then he nods again, eyes still closed, and he drags Castiel towards him, pulls him in between his legs until his back is pressed against Dean's front and wraps his arms around him. "You're safe now, you're okay. I'll never do it again, I promise, I promise they'll never have you. What do you need from me? What do you want from me?"

"Keep touching me," says Castiel in a ravaged voice, finally lifting his head up though his eyes are still pressed tightly shut.

"Okay," whispers Dean. He strokes his fingers through Castiel's hair, repeatedly, soothingly, and slowly feels the hard tension lessen in the boy before him. Dragging his fingers against Castiel's scalp, clearing out the tangles in the dark hair. Like petting a cat, his other arm wrapped snugly around Castiel's side. They're both quiet for a moment, and the tension drops again, just barely. He can hear Castiel's heartbeat rocketing against his chest, and hums a little soothingly, his fingers still methodically dragging through the boy's hair. Time creeps forward. Slowly, Castiel's heart rate lessen. His breathing evens out. His skin cools, and his body relaxes. And then, almost unthinkingly, he leans forward and presses his lips briefly against the nape of his neck. It's a silent apology, a plea for forgiveness, but it is also because there's something sweet and vulnerable about this place that just begs for his lips to touch it.

They both instantly freeze.

"I - shit, Cas, I didn't mean to -" he begins, automatically drawing away with a horrified expression, and then suddenly Castiel's hand shoots out, clutching Dean's wrist and holding him still.

"Don't," he says in a low voice. His eyes are still shut, like a child. Like maybe if he doesn't open them, it's not really happening.

"Don't what?" Dean asks, afraid to hear the answer.

"Don't move."

Cautiously, Dean relaxes back against him, staring into the dark-hair so close to his eyes. Castiel's head tips back towards him slightly and after a moment Dean lifts his hand, running it through his hair again. The silence is so heavy he can almost feel it pressing painfully in on him from all sides, like a tangible force. He can't move. He just - he just, and Castiel told him not to move - his mind whirls. There is absolutely no way on this fucking earth that this is happening right now. Too much all at once; his head spins.

"Can you - can you, Dean -"

"What?" whispers Dean. "What do you want? Anything, sweetheart, I promise."

"Can you… do it again?"

Dean sucks in a harsh breath and everything in the room spins for a moment as he tries to process the request made by the seventeen-year-old before him. The age difference alone is enough to give him pause - but look at what's he done, look at how he's hurt him - how can this possibly be what Castiel wants? He can't take advantage of him, not like this - and then Castiel shudders in his arms, opening his eyes finally and looking up at him with pleading, longing eyes.

"Dean," he rasps out. "I - I need it. Please."

This is what he wants. What will maybe erase the mind-numbing pain produced by the pill. Slowly, Dean drags his hand down Castiel's face then tilts Castiel's head back, his eyes locked on the parted lips so close to his own. "Tell me you really want this," he whispers hoarsely.

Castiel's eyes flutter closed for a moment and then open again to lock onto Dean's, burning hot. "I really want this."

Unconsciously, almost in response to this, his thumb strokes his cheekbone, brushing the silk skin almost too lightly to feel before leaning forward with half-shut eyes and kissing him. It is an agonizing kiss, as light as it is, and he doesn't do much more than drag his lips over Castiel's, breathing into his taste. It feels like a sob. It isn't forceful or heady or controlling - it is _I'm here _and _I'm sorry _and _I think I might need you_ all at once, slow and tender.

It is then that Dean Winchester makes the decision to erase the OBIT. To erase what he's done.

He is beautiful to him then - before, he had been a vague, secret fantasy that Dean would have never spoken aloud to anyone. A teenager, incompetent and too young. Nothing special. Now, though, he is excruciatingly vibrant, he is the sunset as it burns from deep orange to a flaming red, casting everything else in deep shadow before him. Castiel's lips are firm against his, just as he'd tried so hard not to imagine, and he draws his bottom lip into his mouth just for a fleeting moment, sucking down on it before releasing it and letting out a shaky breath all at the same time. "Tell me you want this," he says again in a low voice, eyes closed as he leans his forehead against Castiel's. "Tell me you have to have this."

There is no hesitation in his voice as he says, "I have to have this, Dean. Dean." He shifts, turning around and putting his hands on either side of Dean's face as he leans in and kisses him again, far more forceful than Dean ever expected. His voice is a jagged whisper when he pulls away again. "All of it."

His whisper shudders through Dean and all the lust he's been stifling comes raging back in a tidal wave - but even as his fingers push Castiel's shirt up to count his ribs, even as he leans in and kissed a hot line of kisses down his razor sharp jawline, he still remembers his ultimate goal in this. His mouth finds Castiel's neck now and he draws his skin in between his teeth, biting down hard and then lathing over the sore spot with his tongue generously - and then his mouth is at Castiel's ear, breathing out, "I'm not going to fuck you, Castiel. When you come, it won't be dirty or forgotten in an hour, washed away in the shower. I'm going to give you everything you need, Cas, and you will," he draws his earlobe into his mouth, sucking on it for a moment before releasing it and he wants to imprint himself onto every part of his body, "you will never forget what I do to you, and when you come, the goddamn angels will cry."

He kisses him again, tongue finally pressing into his mouth, tasting something sweet and painfully forgotten, like the last note of a love song.

"Dean," gasps Castiel, his voice coming out raw. "Dean, please. Now. I need all of you now."

"Come on," says Dean roughly, and gets up, reaching out a hand to pull Castiel up off the floor. "On the bed."

Castiel looks at him for a moment, standing there with his reddened lips and mussed hair from Dean's fingers. There is a longing in his eyes that starts up a fire in Dean's stomach. Slowly he reaches up and unbuttons his shirt, his eyes latched to Dean's as he goes one by one. Then his shirt's hanging open and he shrugs out of it, letting it fall in a heap to the floor before he moves to sit down on the edge of the bed.

His chest is smooth except for one little trail of hair leading from his navel to his pants; his muscles are tight and the jut of his hips drags Dean's eyes down. He is sharp angles all over, like a razor blade that Dean wants to cut himself on, just to see how deep he'll bleed. His eyes are dark and focused intently on Dean, watching his every movement. It makes Dean ache. Compared to Dean, with his scars and his grief and his guilt, Castiel looks pretty and pristine.

"Back," Dean says softly. "Lay down. Middle of the bed."

The air thickens around them as Castiel slides back to comply. This isn't rushed and panicked any more. It's slow. Deliberate. There is no turning back.

Dean crawls up on the bed, crawls over Castiel and murmurs, "Gorgeous," the mere word sending Castiel arching up the bed towards him. Does he know? "Do you realize what you do to me? The thoughts you put in my head?"

"You're wrong," says Castiel, as though he can't seem to help himself.

"I'm not," says Dean.

He really doesn't believe it. He doesn't see it. He has been told all his life that he is a tool, a test subject, an unimportant hive worker, with no reason to ever see himself as the glorious piece of art he really is.

Dean wants to make him see it. "You drive me crazy. Without even goddamn meaning to. Fuck, Cas. You've been on my mind for weeks now."

"Can't be true," says Castiel.

"Why not?"

"Why didn't you do something before now?"

"I was - I didn't know if you wanted to me. It's wrong, Cas," Dean ducks his head. "Even if you want this, it's still wrong."

Soft hands come up and land in his hair, tentatively moving through the strands. "Please."

He leans down with some hesitation, tongue coming out once more as he drags it roughly over one pebbled nipple. A moment more and he draws it into his mouth, sucking hard - feeling it harden further in his mouth, and Castiel gasps, his fingers tightening against Dean's hair. He turns to repeat the process with the other nipple.

He lets his weight settle on Castiel fully now, straddling his hips, and he can feel Castiel's erection pulsing through his jeans, aching for release. The teenager is laid out before him and for a moment he feels like a conqueror - because he has been closed off from the moment they met, he has always been fierce and now Dean has made him fragile. "Have you forgiven me yet?"

"I don't know yet. I won't, if you don't hurry up."

Dean says, "Well, in that case," and leans down, flattening out against the lithe body beneath him as he places his forearms flat on the bed on either side of Cas and kisses him deeply, searchingly. He rocks his hips against Cas's, loving the breathy whimpers that Castiel makes with each movement, and then draws away long enough to sit up and pull his shirt off, wanting to feel skin against skin.

Once his shirt is off, he immediately reaches for his jeans, unbuttoning them and then jerking them down - and a quick glance reveals Castiel is working on his pair as well, the heat in the room thickening in anticipation. There's a bit of a scuffle as they both struggle to get their pants off - and then they're both nearly naked, Dean in his blue boxers and Castiel in little white underwear.

"I'm going to make you feel so good," Dean tells him, and then shifts back on the bed so that he is between Castiel's feet. The teenager props himself up on his elbows to look down at Dean, his expression unreadable. "Please let me."

After a moment, Castiel nods, and Dean sucks in a quick breath and then moves, his hands skimming up Castiel's calves and feeling the muscles flex and tighten under his palms. He moves slowly, sliding his hands up Cas's legs, dragging his fingertips over the open skin and pausing at his knees, pushing his legs up into a bend with his strong hands - pressing a warm, tender kiss on the inside of Castiel's knee and then further up, down his thigh towards his underwear. He kisses the area just underneath his navel, fingers digging into Castiel's sharp hipbones, and then kisses his hip. Kisses his pelvis, kisses the trail of dark hair leading into his underwear, kisses the edge of one rib until Castiel is panting loudly beneath him. And finally, finally he drags his underwear down and takes in the sight of the pretty pink cock nestled there, perfectly erect and shining at the tip with pearly pre-come.

"Beautiful," says Dean, and presses a kiss to his hipbone again. He looks up at Castiel. "What can I do to you?"

"Anything," says Castiel, and the expressionless look is gone now - he looks needy, hungry, aching. "Do anything to me."

"God, you need it," Dean marvels.

"I need it," pants Castiel, lift his hips up slightly as though unable to stop himself. "Need you."

"Please forgive me," says Dean, and then leans in and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss right at the base of Castiel's cock. Cas whimpers, and Dean does it again, and again, kissing his way up to the head.

It's been a while since he's done to this for someone - since those early days in college when he was fucking everyone at every chance he got - but he still remembers what feels good, what other people like, and so he doesn't hesitate before he draws Castiel's member into his mouth, moaning at the taste.

Castiel lets out a high-pitched whine, his hands automatically moving to Dean's hair and when Dean looks up through his lashes, he's sees an utterly wrecked sight: Castiel, head pressing back into the bed, chest up and rising and falling heavily with his groans. "Dean, Dean, Dean," he chants in one quick stream.

Experimentally, Dean tightens his lips, pressing his tongue flat against the underside of Castiel's cock, and drags his mouth up slowly, sucking down hard.

"Oh - oh," the little whimpers leaving Castiel's lips are intoxicating to Dean. "Oh, oh, God, Dean, I need - I need -"

"What do you need, baby?" asks Dean, pulling off slightly and breathing heavily. A thin strand of saliva connects his wet lips to Castiel's cock and he watches as it quivers, then breaks.

"_More_."

Dean moves away briefly - addicted to Castiel's squirm and helpless thrusting into the air - and retrieves the bottle of lube he keeps in his bag.

"What - what are you going to do?" asks Castiel, eyes hazy as he looks up.

"Shh," soothes Dean. "Just relax, baby. This will make you feel so good, I promise." And he kneels back down between his legs, gripping his wet cock with one hand and fisting him slowly. Cas's head drops back down to the pillow, a groan escaping his throat, and his entire body shakes as Dean leans in again and takes him back in his mouth, dipping his head up and down as he tries to reach a rhythm.

Dean slows before pulling away again, turning attention to the bottle of lube for a moment as he uncaps it and then squirts it on his palm, generously covering his index finger. "Relax," he says again at Castiel's apprehensive look. "I'm going to take care of you. I'll take such good care of you. I'll never hurt you, Cas, not any more."

He drags a pillow down the bed and helps to put it under Castiel's hips - and then leans in and licks at his balls, feeling them tighten underneath his mouth.

"Oh - _God_," chokes Castiel.

Tongue back up to his cock - moving slowly now, teasingly - and then Dean places a finger at Castiel's entrance and circles his finger around it, feeling it contract at his touch. "Baby, you're going to have to trust me," he says, and glances up.

Castiel is laying there, hair drenched in sweat and stomach flat and taut, anxiety clear in his face. "I don't know," he says. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do you feel good?" asks Dean, his free hand moving to stroke Castiel's cock. It's lost some of its hardness in Castiel's nervousness, but strengthens at the returned attention to it. "Do you want to feel even better?"

"Yes," whispers Castiel.

"I'll stop as soon as you tell me it hurts," Dean promises.

A long moment of silence and then Castiel jerkily nods his head, his hands fisting in the sheets. "Go on. Do it."

Slowly, achingly slow, Dean pushes his index finger into his tight little hole - and fuck, but it's _tight_. His muscles cling to Dean's finger, dragging against it, and Castiel sucks in a hard breath and then another one. "Keep breathing," Dean says.

It's incredibly fucking hot doing this - knowing no one else has ever done this to Castiel, never given him a lover's kiss or paid so much attention to how he's feeling. He can only imagine his cock in this tight place - and he pushes his finger into the first knuckle and then pauses, hesitant to move further.

Castiel pants and then whines, keening, and his expression is the most glorious thing Dean's ever seen.

"How - how does it feel - do you want me to -"

"_Don't stop_," he growls out, unexpectedly fierce. "Dean - don't. Stop. Oh, God," he's wrecked. "More, more, I need more."

"I don't want to hurt you," Dean say, but Castiel is already shaking his head frantically and shifting his hips, groaning as this forces Dean's finger in further. "Fuck. Baby. You're doing so good." He pushes his finger in up to the first knuckle and then slowly moves it in and out, watching with fascination as the skin at the opening tightens around every moment his finger makes. Slowly he twists his finger in a circle, watching as this causes an entirely new range of emotions to cross over Castiel's face, and then crooks it, searching for the hard little nub he knows is close -

"Dean, _Dean_," gasps Castiel, nearly coming off the bed as his eyes widen, pupils dilated until his eyes are nearly too dark to see - and he grips the sheets tightly, another drop of pre-come squeezing out of his cock. "Please - please, I need another."

"Fuck," says Dean, and slowly pushes another lubed finger inside, watching Castiel's face carefully for signs of pain and then, when he only sees frantic lust, scissors his fingers open and twists at the same time, forcing Cas to cry out.

"Like that, huh?" asks Dean in a low voice, and his other hand moves to stroke Castiel's forgotten cock, sending another shiver quaking through his body. "You're going to like it even better when I'm fucking you open. Watching my cock disappear into your tight little hole… you'll be screaming for more, and I'll give it to you, as much as you can take -"

"Dean, oh - _oh_, more, oh, my God, please," gasps Castiel, thrusting harder now, fucking himself down onto Dean's fingers and then up into his hand and he's shaking and panting and then - "Coming, _Dean, Dean, Dean,_" and Dean lets out a little groan as Castiel's entire body tenses up, his hole squeezing down hard around his fingers and his head thrown back. Come splatters his stomach, white and thick and beautiful.

"God, you're incredible," he says, and shifts forward, leaning down to lick right through the puddle of come. It's still warm.

"Dean," slurs out Castiel, clearly still on an orgasm high. "What're you -"

"Shh, relax," whispers Dean, his thumb stroking a soothing pattern against Castiel's hip. His cock throbs, neglected - but this isn't for him. "Let me clean you up, baby. You did so good for me."

"I - Dean…"

He ignores the sleepy protest, instead licking up more come - pressing his tongue flat against Castiel's flushed skin as he gets up every last drop. It's warm and salty against his tongue. "You taste so good, baby," he says, before shifting up and kissing Cas again, long and hard. The idea of the teenager tasting himself on his tongue makes Dean's cock pulse, but he's already accepted that he's not getting off tonight. Tonight isn't his.

"So," whispers Dean, pulling away to look down at the loose body before him. "Am I forgiven?"

There's silence as he smooths sweaty hair off Castiel's face, running his fingers through the damp locks and detangling it, and he's about to ask again when thin fingers close around his wrist and he looks up, studying Castiel silently.

"Don't," says Castiel. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Don't do that again."

"I won't," he says in a low voice. Shame is there again, deep in his stomach. His erection is disappearing fast.

"You can't. I can't fight them and you at the same time. I just can't."

He's fucked up an unbelievable amount and there is no way he deserves to be forgiven - but then Castiel's eyes soften and he lifts his head up, seeking. Dean leans forward and kisses him again, dragging his lips over Castiel's and inhaling needily, painfully.

"Sleep with me," murmurs Castiel after that, and Dean turns the lights off and then slides up behind him, pulling his back to his front and burying his face in Castiel's hair.

"Am I enough for you?" asks Castiel, just as Dean's about to fall asleep.

"You are everything to me," manages Dean, and he knows it's wrong, knows that what he's just done is considered despicable by half the population and illegal by all standards of legality - but he pushes it out of his mind, unable to focus on it as he holds Castiel tighter and they both drift off to sleep.

* * *

Castiel wakes up once before Dean, his entire body seizing up in his nightmare. Quickly, he shoves his fist against his mouth and bites down hard, struggling not to scream. His eyes squeeze tightly shut and he bites down harder, digging his teeth into his skin. He feels too tense, strung out, like he's about to break apart and the _pain_ - and then Dean sighs against his neck and cuddles closer and Castiel stops.

Stops breathing for a moment, trying to remember. Not in pain any longer, no. Aching, but that's it. The mind-numbing pain from the pills is gone. He's fine. He's safe. He… he and Dean?

He almost has another panic attack then, remembering Dean's lips pressed up against his, the heat in the older man's eyes as Castiel sprawled out on the bed. How did this happen? What is wrong with him? He hadn't meant for it to slip out, but Dean's lips on his skin had felt so good and his only rational thought had been _his mouth will feel even better against mine_.

And it had. Even with the exhaustion and ache in his muscles, he had still fully appreciated the pleasure Dean's mouth had brought him. Is that wrong of him? Is he unnatural? The logical side of him says that he shouldn't want to be with someone that would give him pills like that - but the other side of him craves it, _needs _it. How can once be enough? How can he possibly give it up now?

And Dean said he didn't know what the pills did. He'd looked honest, too, when he said, like it really hurt him to watch Castiel suffer.

The thing is, Castiel's seen evil. He's seen it up close and personal, laughing in his face as he chokes on his own vomit with tears streaming down his face. He's seen evil looking in on him on the fourth day of solitary, while he's going mad and maybe starting to hear voices. He's seen evil a thousand times over, and evil is not Dean Winchester.

So he shouldn't have given him the pills. Should've known better. But he also hasn't been exposed to the OBIT as long as Castiel has. He didn't know to be as wary of them as Castiel is.

And the sex was…

Castiel hadn't known he could feel that way before. Nothing compares to it. Nothing in the entirety of his entire life compares to being laid out bare before Dean. He has been degraded to nothing his entire life, but that - that was worship, that was reverence Castiel doesn't deserve.

It is as he's lying there, lost in the warm memory of Dean's tongue dragging against his erection, that he abruptly remembers Dean didn't come. Did he?

He hadn't. He most certainly hadn't.

Suddenly, all Castiel wants in the world is to see Dean come. He remembers his own rippling pleasure of the night before - remembers it shuddering through him, washing over him - but Dean hadn't reached that point. No, he'd definitely gone to sleep unsatisfied.

And if he's unsatisfied about that, he might not want to do it again with Castiel.

While before, he'd assumed this would become a regular occurrence for them, now he's awashed in uncertainty. Was that just a one time thing? Was it a _mistake_ on Dean's behalf? Would he wake up and tell Castiel in no uncertain terms that they would never be doing that again?

No. No, Castiel won't let that happen. He's seen the way Dean's eyes travel with him, the way he sometimes watches Castiel with that hidden desire. Last night only proved that he's been holding himself back this time. If Castiel were to somehow harness that…

But maybe it won't happen. Maybe Dean will wake him up and kiss him long and hard the way Castiel wants him to. Maybe things will finally be easy for once in Castiel's life.

Maybe.

Until then, he snuggles back more warmly into Dean's arms and closes his eyes, deciding to enjoy what he has while he has it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Waking up is painful and coming to grips with what he's done is even moreso. Not only has he hurt a seventeen year old kid with some freaky definitely-illegal pills, but he went and fucked the same teenager the very same day. Blinking and squinting blearily into the light, Dean decides that there is absolutely no reason to deal with any of it right this second and closes his eyes again.

Maybe if he ignores it for long enough, it'll just go away.

Shutting his eyes tighter, Dean buries his face in the Castiel's warm sweet-smelling hair and pretends there's nothing wrong - pretends this is any other person than his underaged partner, that he's been out on a date and it went well and then they ended up at her apartment and now she's going to wake up at any moment and offer him breakfast. Yes, that scenario is much, much better than reality.

And then Castiel's hips twitch back against his and any fake daydream goes right out the window.

"Mmm, Dean?" asks Castiel sleepily, and moves his hips again, seemingly unconsciously. "You awake?"

"I'm awake," says Dean in a low voice, and he thinks about pressing his lips to Castiel's neck, wonders what would happen if he were to suck a bruise onto the pale, pristine skin - and then he forces himself away and unwillingly draws the covers back, moving to sit miserably at the edge of the bed.

"What is it?" comes the same sleepy voice.

"Cas." His voice is low enough that there's a rustle of sheets and then Castiel sits up; even with his back to him, Dean can tell he's being watched. "We can't."

"Can't what?"

"Can't -" a wild gesture that seems to encompass everything that's just happened between them. "Can't. It's not right."

Dead silence. The sort of silence that lurks in graveyards, in the alleyways behind bars, at the end of every conversation that starts with _there's something you need to know_. Finally, a low voice that cuts right to Dean's core, "What's wrong about it?"

"Too much for me to even know where to begin."

His voice sounds flat and disinterested. "Try."

"Well, for one, you're my partner, and I'm pretty sure the first rule of the FBI is not to get romantically involved with your partner."

"But I'm not part of the FBI."

"Which is my second point - _underage_."

He's silent for a long time and then, "Did you not like it?"

"_God_, Cas," says Dean and rips himself away, standing up and putting a hand to his forehead. "No, okay? We're not doing it again. We're just - stop looking at me like that," because Cas is sitting on the bed with a blank expression like he's trying hard not to show any emotion. "Go - take a fucking shower or something. We have things to do today, a _case _to focus on, if you'll remember."

"What happens if I don't?" says Castiel as he slides out of bed and stares at him, hard. And then he's walking past Dean, still smelling like sex and leaning in to ask in a low voice, "Going to give me a Level A pill this time, Dean?"

Dean flinches and it seems to be what Castiel is looking for, as he doesn't look back or speak again as he disappears into the bathroom and a few seconds later, the water clicks on. He tries hard not to think about him in the shower, naked and dripping with water.

It's awkward all through getting dressed and eating the quick hotel breakfast and still awkward at the start of the drive and finally Dean can't take it any more.

"So, today," he says loudly.

Castiel looks sideways at him and stays silent. Helpful.

"We're going to an addiction clinic. Rehab for those who've been exposed to the stuff. That okay with you?"

"Why wouldn't it?" asks Castiel in a polite tone.

"Well, I don't know." Dean takes a hand off the steering wheel to gesture aimlessly. "People. Stuff."

"What do you mean, exactly?" The polite tone is sinking into something icier and Dean's regretting this immensely.

"Just. You know. Talking to the kid on the street. And the kids in the classroom. Not your strong suite?" It comes out like a question. He doesn't know what's happening, how he's suddenly managed to become the uncomfortable question-asker in their little pack and he desperately wants it to change back. He's the leader here. He makes the decisions. Cas is - the quiet one, who looks hot in tight jeans and has the occasional moments of insight. This is not how it should be.

"If you think I should have stayed behind," begins Castiel at last.

"Cas, stop. All I'm saying is that it might be a bit hard for you to see so many people that have been negatively affected by it. That's all."

"I am quite aware of the effects of Grace," points out Castiel in a clipped tone. "I have studied it in depth and -"

"Studying is different than seeing it in front of you," Dean interrupts. "And you've seen some bad things, but this is - some of these people will be fresh off the streets and in full withdrawal."

"Dean, yesterday I sang a boy to his death. I think I can handle it." Which is harsh, but true. "These people will be useful to us somehow?"

He shrugs. "We don't have much else to be going off of. Charlie's obviously looking into the… deaths from yesterday, but. Until we find something, we need to keep all options open. Look." Some brief hesitation. "I didn't mean to offend you. Just warn you. That's all."

There is an extended silence and he's about to give in and put on some Pink Floyd when Castiel speaks again quietly, like each word is costing him something dear. "If yesterday. If yesterday changed how you see me in some way -" Dean assume he's talking about sex which makes what Castiel's say next rather startling. "Seeing me in pain, if it made you think I'm weak in some way, I'm not. Dean, that was nothing to me. It caught me by surprise, yes, because it… because it was in a setting I was not expecting it to be in, but it should by no means make you think I'm - ill-suited or weak - I can assure you, my pain tolerance is much higher than the normal -"

"Cas, Cas," says Dean, at last able to retrieve his voice and swallowing hard around the knot in his throat. "Castiel. Please. I don't - it's not that. I swear it's not."

Quietly, "You don't need to warn me about these things."

Dean says, "I'm just trying to protect you. I mean, give you a heads up."

"Would you do it for anyone else? For Charlie or your old partner?"

Jo. Dean blinks hard and struggles to keep his focus solely on the road. His fingers flex against the leather of the wheel. No, he would not do it for Jo. She was tougher than anyone he could ever imagine - hell, she'd probably storm headfirst into this type of situation and manage to get more information than he ever could. There would be no need to worry about her being frightened or uncomfortable because she was _Jo_. He realizes he's been silent for too long, proving Castiel's point.

"If you don't want a romantic relationship with me, that's fine." Dean opens his mouth and Castiel barrels on once more. "_But _- you owe me enough after yesterday to continue treating me with respect. We were working like partners before this. Can't we continue?"

Respect is all Castiel has ever worked towards - and it is the one thing Dean has struggled with all along. How can he take this teenager seriously after _Jo_? It is only now that he realizes the unfair comparison he's held in his mind this entire time and he forces himself to release it, banishing all thoughts of his former co-worker. This is a different person he's dealing with now. Different skills, different values. Different partner. "Yes. I can do that."

"Good."

The rest of the drive is silent, except for when Dean finally clicks on the radio and then instantly switches to a cassette tape, turning it up louder than necessary to compensate for the gap between them. He spends the next twenty minute singing along to Queen with Cas sitting quietly beside him and finally catches Castiel humming along to 'Bohemian Rhapsody' because who the fuck can resist _Mama just killed a man_?

Yeah, he's ignoring the pain issue. He's ignoring all of the issues, actually. All the pain and guilt and how casual Castiel is acting about all of it - ignored. Because he's Dean Winchester and ignoring his issues is what he does best.

Cold air strikes them as they walk into the clean, airy rehabilitation clinic, and Dean leaves Castiel waiting in the lobby as he approaches the front desk and holds up his badge.

"I'm here to talk to some of the patients, if that's all right," he says, leaning against the counter as he flips his badge closed and tucks it back into his suit. To be on the safe side, he gives the woman sitting behind the counter a pretty smile. "Specifically the Grace addicts - uh, I mean -" He probably shouldn't call them addicts. "Grace recovery… patients? For a case, you understand."

The woman, heavyset with deep jowls and uneven eyeliner, stares back unmoved.

Shit. All right, time to dig a little deeper. He leans forward and lets his eyes flicker down to her nametag before looking back in her impassive eyes. "Carla. _Carla_." A wide glittery grin. "I know you might see this as interfering with - ah, their schedule, perhaps -"

"These patients have been trying to get away from that path their whole life," says Carla in a monotone voice, blinking at him in a way that says she's not taking any of his bullshit. He straightens up and tries not to squirm. "They do not need a reminder of their past at this fragile point in their recovery." It sounds like she's reading from a pamphlet but when her eyes flash, he knows she's taking this seriously.

He needs to think fast. Quickly, he adopts a chagrin expression and glances back at Castiel and then to Carla again, leaning back in. "Look, I didn't want to come right out and say it, but. See that kid back there?"

Her eyes flicker unwilling over his shoulder and Dean turns too, both of them watching silently for a moment as Castiel stares at a vending machine and then slowly moves forward and presses a Coke button, like he thinks something will happen. Then he glances over at Dean and Carla and looks surprised to see them watching, hesitating a moment before waving.

Dean looks back at Carla. "That's my nephew. My sister's boy. I know he looks like a little nerdy dude, but he got involved with some bad kids last spring and my sister's really worried about where he's heading. I know this may be unconventional, but I thought if he saw some people who had been actually affected by it - well." They both look back again.

Now Castiel looks frustrated and is pushing all the buttons on the machine, one by one methodically as though he'll eventually land on one that works.

He glances back and adopts a sympathetic look. "We'll be out in under an hour, cross my heart."

"Honey," says Carla, eyes locked on Castiel and Dean doesn't even bother to look back this time. He hears a loud thump. "Take as long as you like."

"Thank you so much," he says, and then moves away from the desk and calls back. "Cas! Get over here."

"Want a sip?" says Castiel, hurrying up beside him and offering out a cold Coca Cola.

Dean stares at it. "How the hell -" He decides he doesn't want to know. "Nevermind. Come on, I got us an in. By the way," his voice drops an octave, "you're my nephew and potentially addicted to drugs. Sorry."

"All I hear you say is that I'm the reason we got in," points out Castiel, and Dean gives him a sideways look. "You're welcome, _Uncle_ Dean."

Wow, he never wants to hear that ever again. "Yeah, whatever. Make a left here, I think." The heels of their shoes click against the linoleum floor and the rows of fluorescent lights about their heads buzz noisily. Soon they start passing by rooms - most of them closed, but a few with open doors and people looking out, some haggard and some healthy, a few ignoring them entirely until they get to some sort of open lounge with a few people drifting in and out and doing other activities.

"Are they all Grace patients?" asks Castiel in an undertone, eyes flickering around the room in one sweep as he takes in his surroundings. It is the same practiced move he makes no matter where he is, Dean's noticed, no matter if it's a KFC or the hotel room or SD headquarters; its always the same routine check.

"Ah, no. Some of them are just regular old cocaine addicts or alcoholics or methheads. You know, your usual mix."

"So how do we know which ones are the Grace ones?"

Dean looks at him with a little smirk and claps his hand on his shoulder. "That's where you come in."

Castiel stares at him, uncomprehending until finally he looks around the room once more and then back at Dean, squinting. "You want me to…. pick out which ones have been touched by Grace?"

Dean grins. "You are the expert here, right?"

It looks for a second as though Castiel wants to say something crass to him but instead he simply presses his lips together and narrows his eyes further and then settles his gaze on each person in the room, one by one, staring them all down as though his life depends on it. Finally he nods to himself and then says, "Starting with the woman at the table drawing and going right: alcoholism, pain medication - most likely morphine, that one's visiting a relative although probably cheating on a spouse as well, Grace, LSD, Grace, and then the two in the corner are both heroin users."

Dean stares at him in unconcealed amazement. "How?" he finally says.

"How what?"

"How the hell did you just do all that?"

Castiel looks at him for a moment and then one side of his mouth twitches up in a half-smile. "I _am _the expert, aren't I?"

"You're a smug son of a bitch, that's what," says Dean, knocking into him playfully and Castiel catches his elbow and they stare at each other, both of them inevitably remembering the night before. Dean coughs and pulls away. "So which ones did you say were the Grace addicts?"

"The woman writing a letter and the woman watching TV."

Dean purses his lips, examining both for a second before nodding towards the latter. "TV is easier to interrupt. C'mon." Castiel follows obediently as they walk towards the couch at the far end of the room, where a dark-haired woman is curled up with a bowl of popcorn, staring intently at the screen. "Excuse me," Dean begins.

The last thing he's prepared for is for her to completely flip her shit. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of something?" she snaps, lifting her bowl off her lap like she's preparing to throw the entire thing at his face. She's got a British accent. "_Wait till a fucking commercial._ Asshat." And then she's back to intently staring at the screen which looks like an old re-run of America's Next Top Model.

Dean and Cas stare at each other wide-eyed. "Well, shit," Dean finally says, and moves to sit next to her. Cas sits down next to him uncomfortably and they all sit there and watch the show for five straight minutes in silence until finally it cuts to commercial and the woman looks at them like nothing's happened.

"Well?" she asks.

Dean looks at Castiel who raises his eyebrows silently in return. "Right," says Dean, and looks back at the woman. "I'm Dean Winchester and this is my… nephew, Castiel Novak," he ignores Castiel's disgruntled shuffle beside him, "I'm just trying to show him around here - you know, show what happens when." He coughs awkwardly. "When people get involved in the wrong things…"

She stares at them both impassively. Then abruptly her attention switches to Castiel, staring at him intently. "So what's your kick, kid?"

Castiel glances towards Dean and then back at her and says, "Grace."

She arches an eyebrow, looks terribly amused. "Grace."

"I'm sorry, what was your name?" Dean injects.

She sits back against the couch, studying them. "Bela."

"And what was your – I mean, why are you –" starts Dean.

"Grace as well." She shoots Castiel a wide grin. "So you think it's fun, kid?"

He tilts his head slightly. "That's why I do it. Why do _you_ do it?"

"Did it," she corrects and looks like she quite wants something to fiddle with, like a drink or cigarette. "I've been clean for nine months now."

Dean says, "Congratulations," and Castiel says, "That's very admirable," and Bela looks at both of them like they just said the funniest joke ever.

"You're not really here for your nephew," she says to Dean, and it's not a question. Then she looks at Castiel. "And he's not really your nephew. Is he? He looks like he's never even had grape flavored cold medicine, much less fucking Grace. So please. Cut the bullshit. What do you want?" Except that's when the commercials end and she holds up a hand, looking impatient with both of them as she returns her attention to the show.

Dean and Castiel look at each other.

"Um," says Castiel in an undertone. Dean shakes his head. Something non-verbal passes between them in which Castiel wants to know if they should leave but Dean tells him to just stay put and see where it goes and when exactly did they reach the point where they were able to do that? The show goes on and it's some weird-ass photoshoot where they all have to dress up like freaks at a circus and then commercials are back and Bela looks at them.

"Well?" she says again.

"We know this may sound strange," says Dean, "but your dealers. The guys you got it from – I know it was months ago, but do you remember anything strange about them? Any tattoos or anything?"

She gives them a hard to read look. "What are you guys, detectives?"

"We're looking for someone," says Castiel. "He had a tattoo that looked sort of like this on his wrist," and he pulls out a piece of paper from his jacket and unfolds it, handing it to her. Dean can see carefully drawn Enochian evenly spaced on the paper and wonders when Castiel had time to do that without him seeing.

She looks at it for half a second and then rolls her eyes. "No, I get it. You're some of geeky fanatics. What is this, some sort of _Lord of the Rings _spell?"

"It's Enochian," says Castiel, looking confused. "It's an ancient language of –"

Dean nudges him slightly. Most people don't realize that Grace comes from angels or that angels even actually exist; it's just another drug to the common people, able to make them forget about their shitty lives for half a second. He seriously doubts this Bela woman is on the secret.

"It's – it's not _Lord of the Rings_," says Castiel lamely to cover up his blankness. "We're just looking for someone with –"

"Well, my dealer didn't have that shit on his wrists," says Bela, and looks back on the TV. "Try Lisa Braeden, I heard she fucked hers for her hit, so she probably knows every tattoo he's got."

What a complete waste of time. Dean and Cas sit there for a minute or so more, just in case she changes her mind and decides to tell them something or other, and then get up and wander around the room a bit, trying to make it look casual when they choose to sit down next to the dark-haired woman writing her letter.

Dean picks the chair nearest her and waits a moment for her hand to stop moving before clearing his throat. "Miss Braeden –"

She looks up with a polite expression, a calm smile on her face as though being disturbed is absolutely no problem for her, and then her eyes slide from Dean to Castiel. The first thing Dean notices is a look of intense hunger, as though she is a dying woman spotting the cure or a woman in the desert spotting water – and then she throws herself back, away from him, her hands clamping down over her mouth as her eyes turn wild. "No," she moans behind her hands, the word coming out muffled. "_No, _get him away from me!"

They're both on their feet, Dean holding an arm out protectively in front of Castiel, as she shakes her head and falls from her chair to the floor.

"Leave!" she shrieks. "Go!"

Two workers dressed in dark blue medical clothes burst through the door and look around before heading straight towards Dean and Castiel with determined expressions.

"We're going!" says Dean, holding his hands up further to prove his innocence. "I don't know what happened, she just –"

"Please," breathes Lisa and now she's crawling towards a horrified Castiel, one arm reaching up as though to touch him. "Please just one – just a little – please –"

"What does she want?" Castiel asks, cowering behind Dean. With anyone else, he would be out and fighting, but Dean knows there's no way he's going to attack a woman, especially when she's looking at him with such _need _in her eyes.

"Castiel," says Dean sharply. "Go – get out of here. Wait for me outside." And then, when Castiel continues to stare at her, "_Go_."

Castiel goes.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, Lisa sags to the floor, gasping for air and pressing her face into the cold tiles. The two workers move for her, but Dean steps in between them, reaching into his jacket for his badge and showing it to them. "I'll handle this," he says in a low voice.

They share a look and then one of them shrugs and the first one says, "Call us if you need anything," and they leave.

"Is there anywhere private we can go, Miss Braeden?" asks Dean as he grips her elbow and helps her to her feet. She's unsteady, trembling against him.

"My – room." Everyone's staring at this point, but Dean ignores them and so does Lisa as she directs him to her room and he helps support her the entire way. Finally they're there and she sits down heavily on the pristine, white bed, looking exhausted and still achingly hungry, as though she's missing something vital. He hovers, unsure of what to do, until her eyes finally flicker to him and she looks vaguely surprised, as though she didn't expect him to still be there. "What's your name?"

"Dean Winchester."

Impossibly weary, "Sit down, Dean Winchester."

He sits down in a chair that's hard, cold, and incredibly uncomfortable.

"Should I apologize for you having to see that?"

"Of course not," he says automatically.

She smiles tiredly. "Except that's the sort of person I am. I'm sorry that you had to see that."

He looks at her – really looks – for the first time and sees that beyond the look of weariness and struggle, she's actually quite attractive. Hot. Except Castiel would call him crass for thinking that - so, beautiful. He wonders why he couldn't want her – why he couldn't desire this woman instead of the seventeen-year-old waiting for him outside the building. Other than the drug addiction, he's sure she's a good enough person. Probably too good for him, actually. It appears that everyone is. "Who were you writing to?"

"My son," she says.

"You have a son?" Now there's a surprise. "How old is he?"

"Eight. His name's Ben." There's a dedication in her eyes now, and he knows she would do anything for this Ben of hers. He wonders where Ben is staying if she's in here, struggling to get over an addiction.

"What happened back there…"

"I don't know," she says immediately, shaking her head. Her wide dark eyes look frightened. "I don't know what happened. Look, I've only been here three weeks – the tremors have finally died down a little – please tell him I'm so sorry about that, I really am." Horrified, he realizes her eyes are watering up.

"Hey – it's fine. Everything's going to be okay," he assures her, and then sits forward, elbows coming to rest on his knees. "I'm just trying to figure out what might have caused it. You see, my partner and I – I know, looks young for his age – are actually working on a case concerning Grace. I was wondering if you remember anything unusual about your dealer maybe that could help us." He hesitates, remembering what Bela'd said. "Any tattoos or anything, perhaps? Maybe like – " and then he remembers he left the sheet of paper with Bela. "Well, anything foreign, really. On his wrist?"

She reaches up, wiping her eyes and then starts to shake her head before something occurs to her and she looks at him with a dawning expression. "Well – I mean, not on his wrist, but –"

"Yes?" Dean prompts, straightening up and sitting forward.

"Well, on his back he had a tattoo. I don't know if it means anything to you, but I always found it sort of odd. I always asked him if it was Chinese or Japanese and he would always change the subject."

"Could you draw it?" asks Dean eagerly, and at her brief hesitant nod, moves around the room looking for a piece of paper and pen. He notices, as he does, that there's very little decoration in the room – which makes sense, as she's only been here for three weeks – and then comes to a stop at the one picture in the room. "This is Ben?"

"That's Ben."

"He's a cute kid."

"The cutest. You should see him playing guitar."

"He plays guitar?" Dean glances back and the tears are gone now, a soft smile playing at her lips.

"Just barely. I'd just gotten him started in lessons when –" She swallows hard. "I don't want you to think I'm a bad mother. I love my son."

"I don't think you're a bad mother," he says and closes his hand around pen and paper resting on top of the dresser next to the picture. He brings it over to her and crouches down, handing it to her and looking up at her as she stares down at it. "I know how hard it is, to do the right thing. You're doing the right thing now, by being here. And eventually he'll realize that, even if he doesn't see it now."

Why couldn't he love her instead? Why couldn't he live in a house with her and her son and have a nice, normal, happy romance for one goddamn time in his life? It would be so easy, to wake up to her face and not have to worry about touching her in public or what the neighbors might think. About not having to claim to be related to her every time they went somewhere so people wouldn't be suspicious. About not feeling guilt twist his insides every time he felt the urge to kiss her. It would be so easy to have her instead of reality.

Because the reality is that he doesn't care what's easy or not. The reality is that he's given up on easy a long time ago and he doesn't care what anyone thinks is right or wrong, just that he knows what he wants and he knows what Cas wants. At least, he thinks he knows. God, he's sick.

"Here," says Lisa, and holds out the sheet of paper.

He accepts it and stands up, staring down at it for a moment before nodding. He can't read it, but it looks close enough to Enochian that he think it might actually be worth something to Cas. "Thank you. I really appreciate it."

"I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for," she says softly, and looks down.

"Thank you." He hovers for a second more and then nods and says, "I'll be on my way, then, since he's – my partner's waiting outside," and turns to go. It is only when he's walking down the hallway and he looks a the piece of paper again that he sees something he didn't notice before – there, at the bottom, in neat handwriting, is a ten digit phone number.

He could keep it. And call her later, and wait till she's out of the hospital and get to know her and what she likes and dislikes and he could create something special with her.

And then he walks out into the parking lot and sees Castiel waiting by the Impala, looking nervous and upset, and he immediately walks towards Dean and says, "Is she all right?" like he genuinely cares about this stranger he's never met before.

And he knows he's never going to use that phone number.

"She's fine," he says in a low voice. "It wasn't your fault; I have no fucking idea why that happened. Come on, get in."

After both doors have shut, he holds out the sheet of paper for Cas to take and starts up the Impala. "Mean anything?"

"I believe it means 'beautiful' in Chinese," says Castiel in a solemn voice.

Dean damn well near crashes into a Buick at that. "Shit, really?"

"No," says Castiel. "That was a joke."

Dean forces the Impala to stop and then looks at Castiel, staring at him. "That was a joke," he repeats. "You just made a fucking joke."

"I thought if I joked more, you might want me," says Castiel, and if Dean had been driving, he knows he would have wrecked. As it is, he just sits there looking straight ahead for a moment and then shifts into drive and turns out of the parking lot.

"I can't, Cas," he says in a rough voice. He might know that he wants Castiel above all else – definitely wants him more than poor Lisa Braeden – but he also knows that it's wrong. At least until Cas is older and not still under control of a fucking psychopath laboratory and not working with him. He feels Castiel reach out and touch his hand which is resting on the gear shift – and he jerks his hand up and away, ignoring the way Castiel shrinks back into himself.

It has to be this way, he wants to say. But he doesn't, because he hates it when people say things like that to him.

Instead he just says, "What does it really say?"

Castiel takes a deep breath. "It says 'God's glory.'"

"And what the fuck does that mean?"

"A reference to Grace, maybe?"

Dean's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "They're just fucking around with us. They don't mean anything."

"Does that mean this trip was pointless?"

Dean sighs and then reaches a hand up to rub his temple, where a headache is beginning to form. "I don't know. Yeah. I guess. None of this is making any sense. We're just going in goddamn circles."

There's silence and Dean is contemplating putting on a cassette when Castiel speaks up quietly. "Don't you think it's odd that something for one person – the Grace in an angel – gives them the ability to heal and stronger senses and better fighting abilities, and then in another, it… burns them up inside? Turns them into incoherent wrecks and ruins their lives. Don't you think that's odd?"

"And the fact that people willingly choose to do it," says Dean, and he's thinking about one person in particular and he's struggling not to, with all his might. His hands feel like they're about to break the steering wheel off in his hands. "That anyone could see that as a better option – to be high for an hour – than just fucking being happy because of normal, simple things, like eating a cheeseburger or going on a date. It's insane. The human race is fucked up."

"Is that why you're working on this case? So that this will stop affecting people's lives?"

"I got put on this case as punishment," says Dean shortly. "And even if Grace is no longer available, people will just find some other way to screw up their lives."

"Oh."

He glances sideways. "I never asked. Did you get to choose where you were placed or was this just by random?"

"I had the option between entering Afghanistan on a solo mission to retrieve a very important item for the United States government or working on a case involving angels' Grace." Brief pause. "I'm very, very glad I chose this one."

Dean imagines Castiel alone in the desert, fighting blank faces, struggling, starving, alone and unsure of what to do. He's gone from thinking he was incompetent to knowing he's not, but with that knowledge comes a fierce protectiveness as well. It doesn't seem to matter to his brain that he knows Castiel can tackle a grown man and put him out of commission in less than five minutes; he still feels this unavoidable urge to shield him and teach him that the world has its kind sides too. So far he has done very little to show kindness.

"I'm glad you did too," he tells him. Silence hangs over them for a moment and he knows he should speak up now. This is when he needs to really actually say the things weighing down on his mind. "Cas."

"What?"

He takes a hard breath. _Grow up, you little shit, and say it_, he orders himself. "I - I - I know I apologized, but I did it in the wrong place and manner. And I'm sorry for that. But more importantly, I'm really fucking sorry I gave you that pill. I was - messed up. From seeing those bodies. I took it out on you when I shouldn't have."

Dead silence. Then, "How did you apologize wrong before?"

"I was - I put you in a bad state. I took advantage of your mental state." Shit, he really doesn't want to be having this conversation right now. This day feels like it will never end. A subtle glance sideways reveals Castiel staring out the window.

"You didn't take advantage. I asked you to do it."

"Only after I put you through a shit-ton of pain first. You would have never asked for it otherwise and that's why we can't -"

"I would have though," says Castiel. He's turned back to look at Dean, expression ablaze. "I've been thinking about it for weeks now." His voice drops an octave. "Every night…"

Dean bites back a groan and stares hard at the road, forcing himself not to glance over at the teenager sitting next to him. God, he wants him. He wants him so bad it hurts. But this conversation has to be done right. All the times Dean has screwed up before and never properly said anything about it - never properly apologized - he has learned his lesson. He has learned his lesson the goddamn hard way, and because this he has learned it well. "How can you not care? How can you not care that I gave you a pill I knew would hurt you?"

"You knew that's what it did?"

"Well - not exactly -" Castiel makes a little noise like he's proven a point and Dean slams a hand against the steering wheel in abrupt frustration. "Don't you see how that makes it _worse_? I could have killed you! Or paralyzed you for good! Who knows what the fuck it could have done? And you don't _care_?"

Calmly, Castiel says, "I've had worse done to me, Dean. I survived. You didn't know what it did, and you were in an emotionally traumatized state. I said I forgave you. I did."

Which is precisely when Dean realizes how truly far gone this kid really is. He's spent his whole life poked and prodded - and when something like this happens, he doesn't even seem to see how terrible it is really is. Something hot and sick twists Dean's stomach. What else can he do? Castiel doesn't see how bad the situation is, and Dean doesn't know how to show him - and part of Dean is _glad _that he's won forgiveness so easily.

Shit.

Conversation over. He gives up. The rest of the ride is silent except for AC/DC playing loudly in the cassette player.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

There are several times in the next few weeks where Dean finds himself incredibly close to breaking his resolution. For one, it seems like suddenly Castiel has no aversion now to changing in front of him and does so frequently and slowly, as though he's constantly putting on a little show for Dean's viewing pleasure. For another, while Dean has stopped his casual little touches that he started so long ago, now Castiel has taken it upon himself to initiate them – constantly going out of his way to brush up against Dean or slide their fingers together or put his face close to Dean's.

It comes to a breaking point several times.

The first time, Dean's just noticed his shoe's untied. It's simple – stupid – and he starts to bend over to retie it but Castiel beats him to and suddenly he's on his knees before Dean, on the hard pavement outside a Walgreens. "Let me," he says, and Dean stupidly does. First he ties the shoe – but after that, he doesn't immediately get up. Instead, he lingers, his hands moving to Dean's calves and running up the outside of his trousers as he straightens up so that his head is directly level with Dean's crouch. His eyes are locked on Dean's, smoldering with something dark, and he leans forward with his mouth halfway open.

Dean stares back, entranced and more than a little turned on, and then abruptly jerks away out of Castiel's wandering hands, furious. "We're in _fucking public_," he hisses and looks around, reaching up to rub the back of his neck and making sure no one saw. He forgets what he wanted from the drugstore and instead orders Castiel back in the car, completely turned on and ashamed.

The second time, they're eating dinner with Charlie at some stupid restaurant she picked out when suddenly Dean feels a foot slide against his. He ignores it and then it moves up, pressing against his calf – and then down again, slowly, in a way that shouldn't be hot but sort of is. Mainly because they're _still in fucking public _and Charlie's blathering on about something or other that he can't focus on. All he can think about is how much he wants Castiel's legs pressed around his hips as he fucks him hard into a wall. It takes every effort to shove Castiel's searching foot away and even more not to think about how turned on he got playing fucking footsies. He's an embarrassment to all mankind.

The third time happens when he's just out of the shower with only a towel around his waist and Castiel fucking trips and falls into him, knocking the towel lopsided and his hands fall to Dean's hips, gripping his skin tightly and looking up at him. They're frozen, pressed against each other, and Dean can't help but stare down at those pink lips and remember what they felt like pressed against his – what it felt like to press his tongue into Castiel's mouth and hear him moan as he took him down. He doesn't think he's ever seen Cas fall before this moment and he has to go take another shower to get rid of the image of Castiel underneath him, writhing as Dean fucks into him. When he comes out the second time, Castiel look supremely smug.

By the fourth time, he realizes that Castiel's trying to seduce him. Actually honest-to-God seduce him. Him, Dean Winchester, who's had more girls in his bed than he can count and has done more things than Castiel knows about.

It is flattering and terrible and adorable all at once. Terrible because he now has corrupted this teenager beyond all reason; it has gotten to the point where he has a seventeen-year-old propositioning him for sex and shooting him lusty eyes whenever he gets a chance and honestly it is actually illegal for him to feel the way he does about it.

Because it only makes him want Castiel more.

He thinks of Castiel laying awake at night, thinking of ways to get Dean to succumb. He thinks of Castiel at his side, trying to casually touch him, just one brush against his skin is all he wants. He thinks of Castiel nervous and anxious, hoping to please Dean enough to get him to want him again.

He's a sick twisted man that spends far too much time in the shower.

The sick part of him wonders why he spends so much time masturbating in the shower when he has a very willing partner waiting one room over.

It gets harder and harder to keep that little voice silent.

They have a confrontation after the fourth time.

"What's wrong with you?" demands Dean, angry at himself and the world and yes, at Castiel, for being so damn tempting. "Why can't you accept that my answer is no?"

"Just tell me that you don't want me," says Castiel in a firm voice, staring at him with such an intense expression that Dean has to look away. Because he can't say that; of all the things he can say, not wanting Cas is just too much of a lie for him to even consider. Besides, Cas knows the truth. He knows Dean wants him.

"It's wrong," he says instead.

It occurs to him that maybe he has woken something up in Cas - maybe he was too loving that one night, too adoring, and now that Cas has gotten a taste of it, he _needs_ it. He tries to imagine what it would be like to go your entire life without physical affection and then to be blasted it all in one night like an atomic bomb. He's cruel, he knows. Cruel to introduce what it feels like, to show how mindblowing it is, and then yank it all away. But also cruel to continue? He's constantly in a whirlwind.

"What is it you want, Dean?" Castiel asks, jaw clenched hard. "Will it feel better in a couple of months when I'm eighteen? When I can legally vote? Or is that you still feel guilty over giving me the pill?"

"Cas," he begins.

"Do you want to be punished for it?" he demands, and shoves Dean back. Dean lets him, looking down. "You feel bad so you want me to hurt you back? Is that it?"

He looks up. It sounds crazy, but… but it also sounds like that's what he deserves. Maybe then… "Yes," he says. "Do that."

Cas pulls away, looking taken aback. Clearly he didn't expect Dean to go for it. "You want me to - hit you?"

"Yes, Cas," says Dean, steadying himself. "Do it. Go on, I can take it." _I deserve it. Do it._

Castiel studies him for a long moment, silently looking into his eyes as though searching for something. "No," he says after a pause.

Dean deflates. "No?"

"No," he repeats. "No, you don't get that. You don't get a free pass. You think that'll make you feel better? It won't. And I'm not going to stoop to your level. I'm not going to hurt you back just because I can. And you _know _I can."

He turns away.

"Cas -" says Dean again and reaches out, taking his arm.

Cas whirls. "No!" he snaps. "I'm not going to do it! If you don't want me, _fine_. But you do want me, Dean - I can see it. You're just making us both miserable for no reason, and that's not acceptable. But I'm not going to attack you to get my way. I'm not _you _or _them_. I'm _not._"

"You're not me?" Dean asks. "You're putting me in a category with the OBIT? If that's what you think, why do you even fucking want me?" But that's what he's been thinking, this entire time. He _is _in a category with the OBIT.

"I don't put you with them," says Castiel finally. Now he just looks exhausted. "You didn't create it. You didn't… you have problems, too, Dean. I see that now, when I didn't before. You just don't deal with them in the best way."

"Why do you want me?" Dean asks again, because Castiel is avoiding the question.

Now he looks up, really looks at Dean, studies him. "Because you're the first person to feel guilty for what they did to me. That already puts you in a different category. But it's more than that too. I… I can't explain it. Don't ask me to."

And that's the end of that, for a time.

In the meantime, the case drags by. There's absolutely no more leads on the dead bodies, and Pamela refuses to work with them any more. They try questioning more registered angels and get nowhere; instead, they're back to square one, just waiting for someone to turn in a drug dealer. They find no more tattoos and things grow more and more tense between the two of them, waiting for something to tip either in their relationship or in the case. It's a hard line they walk, both of them refusing to give.

It all comes to a head one day nearly a month after they'd had sex and Dean is congratulating himself for lasting so long when he hears Castiel's voice from the other room.

"Dean? Can you come out here? I have a problem," comes the too-innocent voice of Castiel and Dean sighs to himself as he walks out of the bathroom with his towel slung over one shoulder and then comes to a full-stop, staring with wide eyes.

"Cas," he says in a broken way. "What - why - _Cas_."

Because Castiel is nestled in the covers in the middle of the bed, pants wide open and shirt rucked up with his hard cock leaking against his stomach. He blinks bright eyes at Dean as though he has no idea what he could be doing wrong, and arches his hips up slightly, his flat stomach and slender hips sending a lightning bolt of arousal crashing through him. "Dean - I need your help," says Castiel in that same chaste little voice that goes straight to Dean's cock. "Please?"

"Help with - what?" Dean manages, unable to move as he watches, transfixed, as Castiel starts a hand at his chest and slides it down his stomach, pausing at his hips; Dean licks his lips and then looks at Castiel's face, groaning slightly at the look of mingling longing and lust found there.

Fuck.

"It won't go away. No one's ever taught me how," says Castiel. "Please, Dean."

His mind feels numb, lips even more so, but somehow he says, "It's wrong, Cas. I told you that," even as Castiel shifts his hips up and down tantalizingly slow. He's been going mad for days now; watching Cas all the time, remembering it, fuck, he's even been having wet dreams about it the last couple of nights like a fucking teenager. But it's wrong. But Cas wants it. And Cas is more of an adult than most adults fucking are. But -

"It's only wrong if you actually touch me," says Castiel, and this makes more logical sense to Dean than anything has in his entire life. "If you just _tell _me… or _show _me, there's nothing wrong with that."

"Nothing wrong with that," Dean repeats, as though through a fog. God, he wants him. Wants him with his whole body, like a burning ache. "You want me to show you - what?"

"Show me how," says Castiel, his eyes locked on Dean's. "Show me how to - touch myself. If I can't have you," a slow icy smile, "I should at least know how to do it myself, right? You have given me a drug, Dean Winchester, and now I have no other way to access it but through myself."

Dean wants to swallow and can't. "You've - never?"

Castiel shakes his head and then his tongue darts out and wets his lips, his face flushed and eyes brighter than usual with anticipation and want. "Show me?"

It's such bullshit. He knows Castiel knows how to masturbate - has to know, right? It's just natural instinct - but then that sick little voice whispers, _What if he really doesn't know how? You're just going to let him suffer? Hasn't he already suffered enough, Dean?_

For a moment, he still has his self-control. He still knows it's wrong, still knows this is going against his moral fiber - and then Castiel closes his eyes and bites down on his lip and looks so fucking _wanton _that Dean can't help himself and before he can stop, he's ripping off his shirt and tugging off his pants and then climbing onto the bed to rest a short distance away from the teenager.

"Sit up," he says gruffly, and Castiel does so, eyes wide open now and compliant. "Fucking hell. Take the your shirt off. Tease your nipples."

Castiel hesitantly reaches up and slides the shirt up over his head. He sits back against the headboard, nervously, and then reaches up and pinches one nipple, a soft sighing sound coming forth as he rubs it between his forefinger and thumb until its red and perky and then moving on to the other nipple, mouth falling open silently at the sensation.

"Good," says Dean approvingly and just the one simple word makes Castiel look brighter. He's noticed that, of course - along with the casual touches, which always make Castiel look happier, there is the way Castiel seems to straighten and fill out under words of praise, always looking younger when he does so. "Now - lick your palm. Get it nice and wet."

Here comes the show, Dean can feel it. He watches with narrowed eyes as Castiel brings his right palm up to his mouth and, eyes on Dean, licks it up and down, dragging his tongue flat over his palm until its dripping wet with saliva.

"Good," says Dean again, now a little breathless. He's throbbing in his boxers. "Touch yourself."

"How?" says Castiel.

"Stroke yourself. Slowly - just like that -" and he watches as Castiel's head falls back slightly, his hand gripping along the shaft and dragging it at a pace that is driving Dean mad. "Smear the pre-come down the side, yeah. Now go a little faster. Get into it."

"You too," says Castiel, eyes glassy now as he rocks into his own hand. "Want to watch you too."

"Fuck," says Dean, and then he's stripping out of his boxers and reaching into the drawer for the same lube he used on Castiel before, dripping it onto his hand and then reaching down to stroke himself firmly from the root to the head, a low groan leaving his lips. "Slow - slow down, reach down and cup your balls."

Castiel does so obediently and his hips jerk up as though he's experiencing something he didn't expect - and then Dean orders, "Now move your hand back up, fuck, yeah, go hard at it," and everything's silent for a moment as they both seem to get closer together, the only sound in the room their heavy breathing.

"You're doing so good, baby - so hot, shit, you're so _close _already," Dean pants out, chest heaving as he twists his wrist expertly over his cock.

"I'm - yes, close -" says Castiel, a high needy moan coming out, and Dean knows he could just let him reach his climax but Dean's never liked playing easy. And part of him wants to see just how far Castiel will let him go.

"All right, good, now - clamp down hard at the base, right now." It's an order, no question about it, and he sees Castiel's face heat in disbelief as he arches into his hand - and then groans low and pitifully as he holds down the base of his cock and jerks his hips up uselessly, once, twice, before coming to a stop and simply laying there, panting.

"Aches, doesn't it?" asks Dean in a low voice. He can see what this tone of voice does to the teenager - sees how he closes his eyes and shudders once before growing painfully still. "All you want is the release… the pleasure of just letting go and feeling it rush over you - but you're not going to, are you, sweetheart? Hmm?"

"N-no," he manages out. There's a light sheen of sweat already covering his upper body and he twitches, opening his eyes and looking helplessly dazed. "Dean, _please _-"

"Shh, Cas," he shushes easily. "Move slowly, up and down. Tighten your hand at the head."

How did he forgo this for so long? How did he manage to forget what it was like, watching Cas fall apart before him? How could he possibly manage to stay away from this gloriously beautiful sight, laid open and bare just for him? It is all he's ever dreamed about, seeing Cas like this. Seeing him tremble and arch his back and dig his feet into the bed.

Castiel obeys (_of course he does_) and another moan is wrung from him, his legs trembling slightly. "Dean, Dean, oh God, Dean."

Arousal licks at his insides, curling tightly in the pit of his stomach and Dean imagines for a moment that it's Castiel's hand wrapped hot and slick against his cock - and he looks with heavily lidded eyes to where Castiel is staring back at him with pupils blown, lustfully dazed.

"Stop," he whispers again, mouth dry. "Don't move. Let me look at you."

This seems to be exactly what Castiel wants to hear. He shifts back, moving until his back hits the headboard, and then stretches his long legs out before him in a sprawl. "Dean, what about - about before? What you did… earlier?"

"What, baby?" asks Dean, his own hand dragging painfully slow over his cock. God, but he wants to come all over that pretty face so badly.

All of a sudden, Cas seems shy. "With your… fingers. In my -"

"Ah," says Dean. It takes his addled brain a second to catch up. "You want to… finger yourself?"

Castiel jerkily nods then wets his lips.

"Right - right, yeah. Liked that, did you? Course you did…" _You'd like it even better with my cock_. "Here -" he holds out the lube. "Spread that on your fingers. Get them all nice and slick."

Shakily, Castiel complies and then looks back up at him, waiting direction. Like the good little soldier that he is. "What next, Dean?"

"Use your index finger. Go on, reach down… yeah, just touch the rim there for a second. Feel how tight you are?" Dean wants it to be his fingers, wants to be the one to spread Cas wide open until he's begging for more. Instead, he just grips the base of his own cock tightly, willing himself not to blow his load just yet. "Now… push your finger in, just barely. Slowly, yeah."

Castiel's breath hitches as he obeys; Dean thinks he could maybe tell him to do anything in this moment and the boy would do it without hesitation. The air in the room is tight with tension, and both of them seem to hold their breath as Cas pushes in slowly until he's panting and keening, laid out bare for Dean to watch.

"Now - now," Dean licks his lips, starting to jerk himself off faster, "move it in and out - and reach up and touch your cock too, that's so good, sweetheart."

He's the picture of desperation like this, cheeks flushed and eyes dark and bright as he finger-fucks himself on Dean's command. There's sweat shining on the upper half of his body, muscles tense as he lets out a lewd little moan - and then all of a sudden Castiel jerks with a surprised cry and comes, mouth opening wide and no sound coming forth as long squirts of come splatter on the bed between them.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," pants Dean, a fantasy emerging of Dean fucking him just like this – all soft and sleepy and pliant against Dean, letting himself be pushed face-first into the bed and moaning weakly as Dean fucks into him hard. His fingers fly over his cock. And then maybe he'll get hard again and Dean will reach around and grip his cock and he'll come a second time before Dean's even come the first time –

"Dean," whispers Castiel, and that's it.

A sharp cry leaves his lips as everything in his body tightens, not slowing down as he comes hard in long, white stripes – it feels like his world is collapsing and expanding all in that moment, like he never needs anything more than just this, right here, and then it's crashing past him in a wave, leaving him sticky and boneless, immediately sinking down onto the bed and crawling towards Castiel, heedless of the come sticking to him and the sheets.

"Want you," he murmurs. "Want you so badly it hurts."

He drapes himself across Castiel, front to front, and greedily inhales the mixture of sweat and sex lingering against the pale skin of his throat. "You devious bastard," he says right in Castiel's ear and can just see the curve of a smile from this angle. "Trying to seduce me."

"Trying?" says Castiel, sounding far too pleased with himself despite his sleepy voice. "I'm irresistible." If anything, this has done loads of work on his self-esteem.

"Watch yourself," says Dean, and nips a little bite at Castiel's throat. Castiel judders up against him and if Dean were ten years younger, they'd be going at round two. As it is, he simply tightens his arm around his waist and sighs. "This hasn't changed anything."

There silence for a brief moment and then Castiel wriggles around and Dean sorely regrets saying anything, thinking that Cas is leaving – but he's merely shifting up so that he can face Dean, his blue eyes somber and wide and close to Dean's face. He can see every speck of blue from here. "I know you think you're helping me – protecting me, trying not to 'take advantage of me', whatever, but Dean, you're not."

Dean opens his mouth to speak and Castiel shakes his head, just a little bit, and Dean realizes the amount of power this one boy has over him as he presses his mouth shut unwillingly.

"Dean, I – want – this. I want you," and he reaches out, dragging his fingertips over Dean's cheekbone with a firm look, as though he wants nothing more than to touch Dean always, for the rest of his life. "I want everything you have to offer me. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me."

"Cas," says Dean quietly, but Castiel shakes his head again, fiercely.

"If you don't want me, then tell me. If that's all it is, if there's absolutely nothing in you that wants me the way I want you, then just come right out and say it."

They stare at each other for a moment, and Dean knows, of course, that he will never be able to say that truthfully – will never be able to get these brilliant blue eyes out of his head and he will never stop wanting that full mouth or strong jawline – and the seconds drag on as he stares helplessly, unable to even open his mouth. There is nothing he can say here and finally Castiel nods, almost imperceptibly.

"Then the only thing stopping you is what you think others will think – or what I think, and you must know by now that I want this." He cocks his head slightly, and then leans forward and captures Dean's lips with his own, just barely – just enough to drag a ragged groan out of Dean as he deepens it. It softens over time, turns lazy and warm, and then Castiel finally pulls away and stares at him again with half-shut, content eyes. "This is all I want."

Dean doesn't know why he says it, doesn't know why he can't just fucking let it go but there's still some small part of him that holds onto morality, to some set of engrained rules he learned a long time ago. "Underage."

The content look bleeds away as Castiel narrows his eyes. "So I am allowed to work – I am allowed to fight and risk my life and spend my entire life as one long experiment – but I am not allowed to want? I am allowed to feel all the pain in the world, but I'm not allowed to feel _pleasure_? Is that it?"

And that simply kills any argument Dean might have offered against that. He stares at him for a long moment and then surges forward, pushing Castiel onto his back and kissing him hard, roughly, all-consuming. "No," he says. Another kiss, this one deeper, more forceful than before so that when he pulls away a second time, Castiel is flushed and hard against his leg again. "No, you deserve so much more than all those motherfuckers have ever given you."

"You give it to me," says Castiel, pressing up against him insistently.

"I will," promises Dean, and the rest of the night is a blur of tangled limbs and consuming kisses.

* * *

"Thanksgiving's almost here and you're not," Dean tells Sam's voicemail one night as Castiel sleeps. He's standing at the edge of the bedroom next to the window in only his boxers and he idly stares at the Impala parked out front. "It's not your fault. I know it's not. Don't think it is. It's not. But I just wish that you'd be able to make it to Bobby's."

Behind him, the sheets rustle as Castiel shifts and then lets out a slow, sleepy sigh.

"The kid's doing all right. Better than all right. I think he's finally starting to open up - I mean, honestly, when we first started this thing, I never thought he'd actually contribute ideas or speak up. Now the little twerp's interrupting me all the time and sometimes I catch him with this sideways smile…" Dean rolls his eyes fondly.

Another sleepy mumble.

"Still nightmares, though. All the time. He doesn't tell me what they're about any more - not after that first time - and I have no idea what they're about. Maybe it's the same thing, maybe it's something new each time. I used to think it reminded me of you when you were a little kid, but you grew out of yours and I don't think he'll ever do that."

God, this is fucked up. Dean presses a hand into his eyes for a moment and listens to the faint crackle of the silent phone against his ear.

"I think you'd like him," he admits in a soft voice. "He's a lot like you in ways other than just the nightmares. He reads all the time, studies the case far more than I do. Loves rules, too. You know, I just wish more than anything that you could meet him. But at the same time, I'm glad you can't. I… I'm messed up, Sam. I'm poison. I corrupt everything I touch - but I can't stop, either. It's like every time I think I'm strong enough to stop, he does something like ask a certain question or look at me in a certain way or just fucking _smile_ and I can't help but give in again.

"And you know what's really fucked up about it? He has literally no other option but to want me back." Dean laughs, a hard cold laugh as he leans his forehead against the window. "I mean, he's had no other exposure to a kind person in his entire life - of _course_ he likes me. I feed him three times a day and don't shove him a cell, wow, I'm his fucking hero. Shoulda seen what he looked like when I said he could stay with me over Thanksgiving. Like he couldn't believe what a kind soul I was. As if I was going to leave him in that hellhole."

All he wants is some sort of affirmation that he's not a child molester or something and he knows he's not going to get that any time soon.

"So then half of me is torn between stopping for his own good and letting him make his own decisions. He says he wants this, right? Doesn't he get a choice, for once, in who he's with? And if it's me, well…" He's failing at justifying this, he knows it. "Look, man, I just wish you could give me some advice here -"

_Beep._

Dean pulls the phone away from his ear after it cuts him off and stares at it for a long moment before closing his eyes.

* * *

**A/N: **Still failing Astronomy. Today I did twenty equations and then found out I was using the wrong variable the whole time. What's that, you say? Astronomy has _math_? Why yes, my friend. Yes, it does. And if that little tragedy doesn't deserve a review, I don't know what does - except maybe Dean finally pulling his head out of his pooper.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

It's late on the day before Thanksgiving when Dean spares him one last warm look on the front porch, pulling him in close and pressing a kiss to his hair. It bothers Cas that it can't be a real kiss, because Dean is scared of people finding out about them together ("Too risky," he's said over and over again. "Do you want me to get fired? Or worse?"), but he closes his eyes and simply accepts it, grateful for even that much. "You're going to be fine," promises Dean. "They're going to love you."

"What if they don't?" replies Cas, feeling younger than normal. After all that they'd been through together at this point, he'd stopped feeling inferior to Dean a long time ago, but this - not work, but this, interacting with people on a close, personal level? It is something that will always make him feel young, he thinks.

"They will," says Dean, but there's something in his eyes that throws Castiel off as he releases him and moves to ring the doorbell. They both wait a moment, antsy, and then the door is thrown open and Agent Singer peers out at them from underneath a soiled trucker hat.

He glares at them for a moment. "Idjits," he finally grunts, and then jerks his head in. "You're letting the cold air in, hurry on up."

"Nice to see you too, Bobby," grins Dean, stepping forward and clapping him on the shoulder before glancing back at Castiel. "You remember Cas, right? My partner?"

"Course I do," says Agent Singer and then scowls at Castiel. "Didn't you call him a runt the first time I introduced you?"

"Ah, well, I don't remember the details," says Dean cheerfully, and Castiel cuts his eyes to him and wishes Singer's eyes weren't on him so that he could give him a dirty look.

As it is, he attempts a nervous smile, shifting edgily for a moment before he moves forward to offer up his hand. "It's good to see you again, Agent Singer," he says.

Singer stares at him for a moment before he lifts his eyebrows and looks between Dean and Castiel. "He good to you, son?" he asks.

"Oh - um, yes," says Castiel and then wildly feels compelled to add, "Except for the beatings every day, I could probably go without those."

They both stare at him for a moment and then Dean says flatly, "He's joking."

Agent Singer - at last - breaks and lets out a little chuckle, his eyes all of a sudden growing warm. "Might keep up with our crowd just yet. Call me Bobby. Agent Singer is only for people whose asses I have to kiss and I sure as hell hope that isn't yours."

"Me too," says Castiel sincerely, which earns him another low chuckle and he finally allows himself a little grin as he steps into the house and closes the door behind him, feeling like he's passed some sort of test.

Bobby's house is cluttered and small and there are hundreds of books all over the place, both on the shelves and used as coasters and propping up a table leg and in a thousand other positions Castiel's never seen done before. He follows behind Dean as he and Bobby talk about some person Castiel's never heard of, simply content to take it all in as they move about with ease. Dean had mentioned at some point that Bobby was a type of father to him which makes Castiel wonder if this is a type of home to him. And since Castiel is with Dean, does that make this a type of home for him too?

"Was the drive hard?" asks Bobby up ahead.

"Not too bad," answers Dean easily. "We took that new route you suggested and it cut off about an hour, so that was nice." Bobby asks another question; distracted, Castiel doesn't hear it as he catches sight of something and pauses to stare at a picture resting on a stack of books.

It's a much-younger looking Dean and someone next to him, both of them grinning wickedly at the camera and looking brilliantly happy. It makes Castiel's grin turn into something of a fond smile and he reaches out, the tips of his fingertips centimeters away when he hears a gasp from the other room and he freezes, hand moving for his gun as he jerks his head towards the other room. He moves quickly, trenchcoat swirling around his leg, and has his gun pulled out halfway from its holster when he reaches the kitchen and sees Dean staring at an older woman who is across the room.

"Ellen," he chokes out. "I, um, didn't expect you to be here -"

Castiel looks wildly from face to face in the room, finding far more people than he expected but no answers as to why his partner looks more vulnerable than he has in the entire time that Castiel has known him. His hand tightens on his gun.

"Been avoiding me, boy?" asks the woman in a dangerously soft voice. Her hair is a dirty blonde, hanging loose around her face, and her eyes look both determined and world-weary in the same moment. "I have some things to say to you."

"Ellen, please," says Dean helplessly, and he lifts a hand out behind him just for a moment, as though he's searching for something to grab onto. Castiel takes a step forward, releasing the gun to reach for Dean - and then recoils as Dean's arm swings back forward, moving to scrub at his face.

_Right,_ Castiel reminds himself. _You're not together here. _

It doesn't hurt, not really. Mainly it just bothers him that he can't be more of use to the person who has become so much for him in the past few weeks. Their relationship had accelerated quickly since Dean finally admitted defeat and now Castiel is used to a whole array of things he never imagined, like sleeping in the same bed as someone and pressing his lips to another's. He wants to step in front of Dean, take the bullet for him - but he instinctively knows that this is not something he should interfere with. This is not his place.

"Dean," says Ellen, and it's the way she says his name that finally makes Castiel relax, if infinitesimally. "Dean, get your ass over here."

A rush of air leaves Dean's lips and then he's rushing forward and sweeping the woman up in a tight hug, somehow looking small even though he'd previously towered over her. "It's all right, baby," she says, her voice muffled by his jacket, and Castiel looks away.

He shouldn't be seeing this. No one should be seeing this. This is - private, and he feels something curdle in the very bottom of his stomach. Even being with Dean will never give him this moment of love and acceptance from a parent figure - he will never know what it feels like to have a mother push back his hair and kiss him on the forehead or a father slap him on the back with a proud smile and it is all Castiel can do to not sink into the floor on the spot. He shouldn't be seeing this.

"Let's go somewhere," says Ellen, pulling away, and Dean nods jerkily, not noticing anyone else in the room but following after her as she takes his hand and pulls him out of the room.

The silence is awkward for a long moment and then -

"Castiel!" exclaims Charlie, bounding up to him to give him one of her tight hugs that he's just barely gotten used to. "Dean didn't mention he was bringing you, the little shithead -"

Bobby clears his throat loudly.

"Now you guys finally get to meet Dean's new pet," she says, keeping an arm around his shoulder as she grins at the other people in the room. "Isn't he adorable? Did I mention he beat Dean in a one-on-one fight before?"

"I'm just glad I'm not the youngest around here any more," says a boy from the table dryly, picking at a piece of toast. "Now maybe Rufus can find someone else to hate."

"Like that's ever going to happen," says a bearded man opposite him. "You're in it for life, Kev."

"Charlie, stop that, you're strangling him," says a man leaning against the sink and a closer inspection reveals he's peeling potatoes. He looks just as gruff as any of them but he gives Castiel a smile that makes him feel a little less nervous than he would otherwise.

"I am not," pouts Charlie, but moves off him anyway to Castiel's enormous relief. "So - tell the gang all about yourself!"

"Uh," says Castiel. Dean said they would like him. Dean did not warn him about this.

"Kid looks like he's about to pee himself," says a dark-haired woman at the back of the table, her black boots propped up on the scarred wooden top. She grins.

"What, you're going to interrogate him without even introducing yourselves first?" asks Bobby with his arms crossed. "Idjits."

"Right, right," says Charlie, and then clears her throat and begins, "I'm clearly Charlie Bradbury, technological genius, also known as the one who is in the business of saving Dean Winchester's ass. Knowing me is the best decision you'll ever make. This here is Kevin Tran, translator and part-time code breaker," Kevin waves, "and Aaron Bass, who's in charge of weapons distribution," Aaron manages a smile, "and Meg Masters, don't believe a word she says," the dark-haired woman smirks, " and Benny Laffitte is who is like the only one who actually doesn't work for the FBI but makes the best damn food in the world so he's allowed to hold our secrets," Benny makes a little noise that might be the beginnings of a laugh, "and you know Bobby, blah blah no one really knows what he does - and that was Ellen, before, she's um -" for once, Charlie falters.

"Close family friend," supplies Bobby.

"Right," says Charlie. "And Garth, of course you know him, his intel is what got us as far as we are. Weird that he of all people has so many contacts in the drug world. Anyway, he's coming soon, but I think he's held up on some kind of technicality. And I don't know if Chuck and Rufus are coming, but they're agent and handler as well, and Rufus is possibly the scariest person you'll ever meet..." She trails off for a moment, thinking, and then shakes her head. "Anyway, am I forgetting anyone?"

"Why don't you just list the whole damn department while you're at it?" mumbles Bobby, moving to take a seat at the kitchen table.

"It's okay if you forget everyone's names," says Kevin, looking reassuring. "I didn't know who Rufus was for _ages_."

"Yeah, and now he wishes he could forget," adds Aaron, and they all laugh.

Castiel feels another pang in his stomach.

"You hungry?" asks Benny, now moving the peeled potatoes into a giant pot on the stove.

"Say yes," Charlie advises.

"Yes?" asks Castiel.

"But only if you mean it," Kevin adds.

"Yes," says Castiel more firmly.

"Take a seat," Charlie adds.

Castiel hesitates, wondering if this is some sort of trap, and then moves forward to take a seat. He keeps his hands in his lap, feeling too small in his trenchcoat, and looks around the table, waiting for someone to say something.

"So," says Meg after a moment. "Have you ever played a drinking game?" She grins dangerously.

"Meg," warns Bobby in a dark voice.

"What?" she asks innocently. "I'm sure Dean wants us to get to know him better and this is the best way. Wouldn't you agree, Charlie?"

Charlie looks as though she's torn between two things she wants very, very much, and Castiel knows the war is lost when she turns to look at Bobby with wide eyes. "He works for the FBI, Bobby, don't you think he _deserves _a few drinks?"

"He's underaged!" points out Bobby, sounding outraged. Castiel wants to hug him. Or maybe shake his hand. He has a very strong feeling indeed that playing a drinking game with this particular table of people would be very, very bad. Everything Dean warned him not to do.

"Well then, he shouldn't be working for the FBI, should he?" asks Meg sweetly.

Bobby glares out from underneath his trucker hat for a moment at all of them and then mutters, "I refuse to be a part of this," and leaves the room with his dignity in tact.

Castiel, it seems, will not be so lucky.

"Ever played Ten Fingers, kid?" asks Meg, and everyone in the room groans.

"You can't do that to him on his first ever drinking game," Kevin protests. Beside him, Aaron just looks bored behind his beard and ready to drink anything that comes along. Benny's finished with whatever soup he was making and pulls up a chair, sitting in it backwards with an interested look.

"I've never had imbibed alcohol before," says Castiel cautiously, and everyone groans around the table a second time except for Meg, who just looks more evil.

"Okay, Aaron, go get the stash and then, hands up everybody," says Meg cheerfully, holding her own hands up, her dark red nails glimmering maliciously. "You playing, Benny? You gotta leave if you're not playing; sorry, I don't make the rules."

"Yes, you do," says Aaron from the back of the room where he's bent over, retrieving something.

"I'll play," says Benny, and then grins. All of a sudden he doesn't look so trustworthy any more. "Gotta make sure my soup doesn't burn, after all. Can't do that from any other room of the house and I don't trust you drunk idiots to remember it."

"Benny has the highest tolerance for alcohol you'll ever meet," Charlie confides to Castiel. "Higher than Dean even."

"Shut up, everyone - Kevin, put your hands up - all right, I'll start," says Meg, and Castiel sends her a panicked look because no one's explained anything to him at all. She shoots him what he suspects is supposed to be a reassuring look. "You'll catch on quickly. People say something they've never done - if you have, you put down a finger and take a drink. Simple. Okay, now… I've never… eaten an apple before."

"Unhealthy," declares Charle once.

Benny shakes his head sadly. "An abomination."

"But…" says Castiel, confused, as one by one, the bottle starts being passed around the table and everyone takes a sip.

"It's her secret weapon," Charlie tells him. "I swear, she's purposely never eaten an apple before just because of this game."

"The opportunity has never presented itself to me," says Meg smugly.

"Impossible," sighs Kevin, accepting the bottle and sniffing it for a second before taking a sip and grimacing.

Finally it gets to Castiel, who stares at it doubtfully before looking around at everyone and taking a deep breath. He wants to be liked. And accepted by Dean's friends. And if this is the way to do it… well. Slowly, he lifts the bottle to his lips, closes his eyes, and takes a hard swig. And comes up gasping and choking on it, eyes fluttering open as he holds the bottle out for someone to take.

Charlie claps him on the shoulder. "Nice one," she says approvingly.

It's Aaron's turn next, who gets a very sour Meg out by saying, "I've never dyed my hair blonde before," and everyone grins as she is the only one to take a drink and put down a finger.

"It was a bad period in my life," she defends herself. "We don't talk about it outside this circle."

"What's in the bottle?" Castiel whispers to Charlie as Benny goes ("I've never been in an airplane.")

"The leftovers of all the other bottles we don't finish. I don't like to think about it," she responds in an undertone, and then it's her turn and she straightens grinning. "God, I love this one. I've never had sex with a man."

"And you say I'm the cheater," scoffs Meg, putting down a finger.

Aaron and surprisingly Benny also surrender a finger - and then everyone looks questioningly at Castiel and he wonders if he should lie for a moment before he relents and puts down a finger and instead of looking disgusted, everyone only looks impressed.

"Drink from it, my man," says Aaron, holding out the bottle and Castiel takes it and spares a hesitant smile before drinking from it. This time it goes down easier.

It's Castiel's turn now and he thinks for a moment, struggling to think of something that will affect everyone, and he finally says with some pride, assured that everyone will have to drink, "I've never celebrated Thanksgiving before."

Everyone stares at him - and he panics as he starts to see it for the first time, the pity, the withdrawal, the, '_Oh God, what has this kid been through_,' and he can tell someone's about to say something uncomfortable when he quickly adds, "with alcohol."

A stunted laugh goes around the circle and then everyone drinks and it's back to the game and Cas is one of them again.

One of them. It has a nice ring to it.

And if he lies a little, so what?

* * *

Seeing Ellen again after so long is a shock to his system and Dean feels as though a hole has opened inside him as he follows her up the stairs to the best guest room in the house, the one she and… she always gets when she comes here. It's silent between them and he thinks he can hear talking going on in the kitchen - and for a moment he wonders how Castiel will handle it, being on his own with all of Dean's closest friends. He feels bad, thinking of how worried the seventeen-year-old had been about being accepted and included and now Dean's gone and abandoned him, but then he and Ellen are entering the guest bedroom and he can't think about that anymore.

"It's been a long time, Dean Winchester," she says, turning to face him, and his stomach tightens painfully.

"It has," he admits quietly, ashamed.

"Have you been avoiding me, then?" and there the hands go, on her hips, just like always.

He can't bear it - he sees _her_ in the eyes, in the mouth, in the way she holds herself, and Dean turns away, head bowed under grief. "I couldn't see you."

"Oh," she says, and then softer: "Oh, Dean." Slowly, she moves toward him and looks up at him for a moment, the corners of her eyes looking wrinkled and faded. She takes his face in between her callused hands, studying him, and then reaches up on her tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "Dean, you silly boy. You shouldn't have done that."

"Ellen, please," he says in an exhausted voice. He pulls out of her hands and turns, walking towards the bed and sitting down, his shoulders sloping with something akin to defeat. His hands hang limply in between his legs, face downturned. "I couldn't face you. Not after -"

"Not after you drank your way through the funeral?" she asks in a dry voice and moves to sit down next to him on the bed.

He doesn't move, doesn't speak. It's silent for a very long time.

"I killed her," he finally whispers. "Me, Ellen."

"She chose that life," Ellen replies in a carefully composed voice. "She made the decision to take that case with you. She - always told me that you were the best partner she could have asked for, Dean."

"She was wrong."

"Dean," says Ellen sharply, and when Dean finally glances up, she's glaring at him fiercely. "If your dead partner's mother tells you that she knows something, you do not contradict her - and listen to me, I _know _that it's not your fault. You did all you could for her. And she loved you for it."

He can't have this conversation - not so soon after the goddamn trial and the goddamn funeral and the goddamn way her body still appears in his dreams sometimes, lying there broken and cold and bleeding. He wonders how much Ellen knows about those last few days - how Dean had had to listen to Jo be tortured for hours on end, watch her be assaulted continously, watch as Alastair dragged a knife through her abdomen and then looked up at Dean and _smiled_.

Smiled not in a way that said _you're next _but smiled in a way that promised _you'll grow to like it_. People like Alastair were the reason people like Dean had a job, to wipe the scum like him off the face of the earth - because people like Alastair found pleasure in torturing, found happiness in the suffering of others.

"He was trying to get to me," whispers Dean miserably, and he brings a hand up to cover his eyes, unable to stop his shoulders from shaking. "He used to her to crack me."

"But you didn't crack," says Ellen, and a hand touches his back, causing him to flinch away. She doesn't stop, however, but merely waits a moment before sliding her hand back and forth across his shirt, soothing him.

He doesn't deserve it. "If I had given in, she might be alive," he whispers, the thought that's tormented him since this whole thing ended.

He's not prepared for Ellen to smack him across the head and it's enough of a scare that he sits upright and stares at her, wide-eyed. "Now you listen, and you listen good," she tells him, and then gets to her feet, almost as if to emphasize the fact that her words are more important than his. "If you had given in, he would have still killed Jo. She was brave and she was good and goddamn it, she was the best thing in my life - but her sacrifice and your struggle meant that that _sick bastard _didn't kill and torture another person, and if you don't think she would have been proud of that, then you didn't know my daughter for fuck all, Dean Winchester."

He stares at her. Slowly, he gets up from the bed and moves and hugs her again, takes her in his arms and pressing his chin to the top of her head. "I'm so sorry, Ellen," he murmurs, and closes his eyes as she starts to shake against him. "I'm so, so sorry."

Because he lost a partner, but she lost a daughter, the most important thing in her whole world. Knowing Ellen, she would have readily given up her life for that her daughter's - hell, she might have sacrificed herself just so that she wouldn't have to live in a world Jo didn't.

It is sad when children hear of their parents dying, but it is devastating for parents to have to bury their children. The ache in his chest twists and throbs, like a live thing, hot and pulsing.

"I should have been at the funeral," he says quietly, and she hugs him back. "I should have stood up and given a long fancyass speech that Jo would have laughed at."

Instead he was raging drunk and getting into bar fights and he probably ending up crying in some random girl's apartment at the end of it. A feeling of deep shame wells up in him, another guilt to add to his evergrowing list. Dean Winchester, the great fuck up. He's got to stop drinking. He's got to change. No more.

"Yes," and Ellen pulls away, wiping at her eyes. "You should have. Losing her was hard enough on its own without losing you too, Dean. You are just as much my child as she is. Was."

"I can't ever ask you to forgive me."

"Oh, Dean," she says again, looking up at him with watery eyes. "I already did, you stupid son of a bitch."

A round of laughter peals up through the stairway and they both look at the open door before Ellen lets out a choked laugh. "She would have loved to be down there and meet your new guy. She loved Thanksgiving so much."

"And drinking," says Dean, because that amount of laughter and shouting only comes from one thing. He prays to a God he doesn't believe in that Castiel did the right thing and abstained. They'll rip him apart, drunk.

"And pie," she says.

"God, and pie. You're making some?"

"Already made, boy."

They look at each for a long time, and Dean knows he should have done this months ago and also knows that he couldn't have done it a moment before this day, right now. "I'll never move on," he tells her. "I'll never meet another Jo."

"There will never be another Jo," agrees Ellen and she looks brokenhearted and composed and ancient all in that moment. "Or another Dean."

"Or another Ellen."

"How's the kid?"

Dean feels a soft smile come on his face and knows he should wipe it off, immediately. If anyone can read him, it's Ellen Harvelle. "Great. Crafty son of a bitch. Smart. Looks young."

"Very young," says Ellen suspiciously.

"But he's aged," says Dean, looking away. "He's… been through things. Like all of us." When he looks back, she looks resigned.

"Then it's good he has you as a partner, I guess. You're tougher than anyone gives you credit for, Winchester."

There's another loud peal of laughter from downstairs and Dean looks at her questioningly. "Should we go make sure they're not burning down the house?" he asks, wondering when exactly he became the responsible one in his group of friends. God almighty.

"Leave them at it for a while," she advises. "How about instead we go grab some shotguns and shoot some things up out back?"

A faint smile crosses his face. "I'm thankful for you this year, Miss Ellen Harvelle."

"Oh stop it," she says, but there's a crooked little grin on her lips and she tucks her arm in his as they leave the room again. "It'll be okay, Dean."

"Sometimes I think you just might be right."

"I'm always right."

"That too."

* * *

Dean feels much better after shooting all the windows out of an old Chevy Nova and the only thing on his mind is grabbing a hot mug of Benny's fantastic hot chocolate and putting on a football game when he walks into the kitchen and remembers that, oh right, everyone except him is totally raging drunk.

"Eat it, bitch!" screams Charlie, standing on a chair and pointing down at Meg who is surrounded by bruised apples. One looks like it's been stepped on quite a few times. Or thrown at someone's head.

"You can't make me! Fuckin' - panda shit! Tha's what you are!" slurs Meg back, looking disheveled and drunk and sullen.

"It's - it's juss' not _fair_," says Aaron next to her, leaning heavily on his elbow and staring at her with glassy eyes. "Tha' you always get to use that against us and then you fuckin' _win_ and it's all 'cus of that damn apple trick."

"EAT IT," shouts Charlie, and then makes the mistake of jumping up and down on the chair. She slips and Dean rushes forward, hand outstretched, but she somehow miraculously lands in the wooden chair unscathed and immediately burst into laughter.

"God, you people are a mess," says Dean and then realizes there's one person that's not totally wasted and that's Benny, calmly standing by the stove and stirring his soup. Dean suppresses a grin and moves over. "Didn't want to play?"

"Oh, I played," says Benny, looking up and giving him a grin. "Didn't win, either. They're just children, that's all."

"Impressive," says Dean, and then, looking around again, "So Aaron and Charlie are tormenting Meg, and you are totally one hundred percent sober it appears, and Kevin's passed out underneath the table - so where is -"

"Your little pet's in the pantry," snorts Benny.

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Pet?" he asks but moves towards the pantry anyway, unsure of what to expect when he opens the door but it is certainly not Castiel curled up on the floor hugging a bag of pretzels and crying.

"Hmm," he says after a moment, entirely unsure of what to say next.

"Dean!" says Castiel through a mouthful of pretzels and he stands up, spilling the entire bag across the floor as he stumbles forward and nearly falls, only caught when Dean moves forward and catches his elbow and holds him up. "I thought you'd left," he says, looking up at him with something akin to awe and despair shining in his bloodshot eyes. "Gone. Left _me_."

"You are," says Dean, "wow. Incredibly drunk."

"And you," says Castiel, wobbling against Dean and then smiling in a sloppy fashion, "are _gorgeous_. I want you so bad, Dean," he says and leans up, trying to put his lips near Dean.

"Woah there, hot stuff," says Dean, leaning away and laughing. "Have you ever actually been drunk before?"

"Never had alcohol," asys Castiel loudly. "In - my - _life_. But," and he leans in again, talking in what he obviously thinks is a whisper, "I wanted to fit in with them, Dean. So that they would like me. And I could see what having a fa-ma-ly was like."

"Oh," says Dean, and he suddenly feels an inexplicable wave of sadness over this drunk, lonely teenage boy in his arms.

"And guess what?" asks Castiel, swaying backwards. A silly grin crosses his face that makes Dean feel warm again. "I _fucking won_."

"Oh, God," says Dean, and he laughs. "You are a danger to yourself and pretzels everywhere. Come on, let's get you to bed."

"Bed?" squints Castiel, and then rips his arm out of Dean's grip with surprising strength and trips backward, falling down heavily on his ass and staring up at him. "No. Noooo. I don't wanna go to bed."

"Cas, you're _drunk_," says Dean. "Your opinion doesn't count in this."

But the teenager isn't listening - instead, he flops backwards like a loose noodle, spreading himself out on the floor. "I beat you, Dean, in a fight. You can't make me."

"Oh, is that how this is gonna be?" he says, arching his eyebrows. "I'm gonna have to make you?"

Castiel seems to think something about this is hysterical and he starts giggling, loud, infectious giggles. "Yeah, make me. _Ssssssseduce me_, Agent Winchester." His leg kicks out, knocking into Dean's ankle. "Take off your shirt and maybe I'll come. _Come_," he says again and laughs like someone's just told the dirtiest joke ever.

This is perhaps the most ridiculous situation Dean's ever been in. Already, he's regretting his decision never to drink again, if only because this kid is driving him to the hard liqour right now. "I am not doing a striptease to get you to come to bed," he tells the boy on the floor, who only cracks up more. Dean rolls his eyes, trying to suppress his own amusement. "I'm going to kill whoever did this to you. Was it Charlie? I bet it was Charlie."

"It was -" he hiccups, "_me_, I drank the - the, whatever it was. Vodka? Charlie said… mixed. I liked it."

"Of course you did; you've never even had cold medicine."

"Dean, I won. Give me a prize," Cas pouts, wriggling around on the floor. His shirt hitches up on one side, and Dean has to force his eyes away from it.

"Your prize is that you get to go to bed. Come on, get up."

"No," pouts Cas even more. "I want you. Give me you."

"You're far too horny and I'm far too old for this," says Dean, and exasperated with their little game, bends down and grips Castiel's ankle with both hands and starts dragging him along. The whole thing is horrifically reminiscent of his college days.

"No!" shrieks Castiel instantly, rolling onto his stomach and dragging his hands along the floor. "Noooo, Dean!"

"Get up!"

"I won't!"

"I'm going to pull you out of the pantry and everyone's going to laugh at you," threatens Dean. He doesn't expect it to work as fast as it does but all of a sudden Cas stops fighting and sits up, tugging his ankle out of Dean's loosened grasp and staring up at him.

"All right, I'll go."

"You're the most ridiculous drunk person ever," Dean tells him as he helps him back up.

"Amma," says Castiel, blinking as he's led out into the brightness of the kitchen. He shakes his head a little and starts over, "Am - I sleepin' on the floor?"

Dean passes a smile to Benny, who's currently examining Kevin to make sure he's not about to vomit, and sees that Charlie and Aaron have succeeded in their mission because Meg's eaten about three apples now and looks like she's now about to die. He glances sideways at Castiel who is dragging his feet along and leaning heavily on Dean and looks like he's about half a minute from passing out. "Hmm? No, kiddo, don't worry about where you're going to sleep."

Castiel lets out an unintelligible sound that no one on the face of the earth would be able to decipher.

"Hey, good luck with that," Benny calls to him, and Dean glances over his shoulder and gives him a _being sober is the goddamn worst _look before turning the corner with Castiel and leaving the chaotic kitchen scene behind.

"So you won, hmm?" asks Dean to the barely moving lump at his side. "Very impressive. Except isn't the person with fingers still up the one that's actually done the least? So maybe not as impressive as you'd like to think."

Castiel says something into Dean's shirt and Dean looks down at the top of the ruffled bedhair, a ridiculously fond expression crossing his face. "I cannot understand a single thing you're saying. God, being the sober one is so weird. Normally I'm the one falling down and trying to make out with people."

"Make out," says Castiel clearly, finally lifting his head.

Dean laughs. "Ah, see, you like that idea don't you? Come on, get in here before you start humping the walls." Opening the bedroom door, Dean pries Castiel off him and pushes him inside, standing at the edge of the room and shaking his head for a moment as Castiel stumbles blindly around the darkened room.

"Lie down," he tells him, watching with amusement as he struggles to get a shoe off. "Don't hurt yourself. Don't throw up in the sheets. Go to sleep. I'm going to go check on something and I'll be right back."

Castiel slurs out something else and Dean rolls his eyes and walks out, making sure to close the door behind him.

It's a simple enough task to find Bobby; he simply follows the sound of impatient huffs and a football game and finds Bobby and Ellen sitting together on the couch in the living room. They both look up as Dean enters and Bobby lifts his eyebrows.

"Heard the kid's a lightweight," he accuses as though this is somehow Dean's fault. Naturally.

"What'd you expect? Sorry, I just didn't expect a bunch of Feds to get my partner drunk as soon as I left him alone with them; I was rather hoping they'd settle for a casual round of UNO or something."

Ellen snorts.

"Idjit," says Bobby, but already his gaze is back to the football game. "I'm actually more surprised to see you sober than him drunk."

"Nice," comments Dean. "Your faith in my sobriety is inspiring. Sleep with one eye open, old man."

"I put a sleeping bag in your room, Dean," says Ellen after nudging Bobby with her elbow. "If he throws up on the carpet, make sure he cleans it up. That's the only way they learn their lesson."

"Will do," says Dean, tipping a two finger salute to them both before turning and heading back to the bedroom. He hears the sounds of someone tripping in the kitchen and rolls his eyes, unable to even gloat with the amount of blackmail each individual in there has on him. Every single one of them has seen him far drunker than they've ever been, and every single of them would gladly use it against him given the chance. Pricks.

He expects Castiel to be asleep by the time he gets back and so finds a surprise when he steps in quietly and clicks the door shut behind him and hears the rustle of sheets as Castiel's head turns towards him.

"Hey," whispers Castiel.

"Hey," whispers Dean back.

"Thought you'd left."

"Only for a moment. Told you I'd be back. Just wanted to say goodnight to the owners of the house."

There's a long silence and Dean takes the moment to start unbuttoning his shirt, taking in the soft breathing coming from the middle of the bed. It takes him a moment to realize that somehow in the time he'd gone Castiel had managed to get out of both his shirt and pants. He laughs softly into the night. "Really surprised you managed getting yourself ready for bed like that, Cas. Goodnight."

"What are you doin'?" slurs Cas, twitching on the bed and lifting an arm up in the air. The excitable drunk from the kitchen has already fast melted away, leaving only drowsy intoxication in its wake.

"There's a sleeping bag down here for me. You stay up there."

Castiel immediately lets out a little whine. "_No_, Dean, bed. Bed, Dean."

"Cas, we can't," says Dean, standing at the edge of the bed and staring down at the skinny hips and wanton expression. "You're - drunk. And really fucking horny. But I'm not going to take advantage of some drunk idiot in my bed just because."

"But I want it sober too," whispers Castiel, squirming into the sheets and blinking up at Dean. "I want it all the time, Dean."

"Ah, to be a teenager again and feel hormones' keen sting."

"You're making fun of me," pouts Castiel. "You don't want me."

Dean says, "Who knew you were such a sad drunk?"

"I won," he says. "I deserve a prize. I wanna prize."

"Oh yeah?" Eyebrows lift. A half smile cocks the side of his mouth. "You _deserve _one? Getting a little cocky there."

"Yes, that's the general idea," says Castiel, and then laughs at his own joke. It is goddamn the cutest thing Dean's ever seen. Unbelievable. He's standing at the edge of the bed, sober and too moral to fuck the shit out of this adorable son of a bitch. Cas takes the moment to yawn just then, wide and full-bodied, like a cat. "At least sleep in the same bed with me?"

"You make a hard argument," says Dean, and unbuckles his pants. He kicks out of them and then makes sure to lock the door before he hesitates a moment more and then climbs into bed with Castiel. "Oh, God, are we going to cuddle?"

"Yes," says Cas happily, and just like that he's all over Dean, not in a sexy way but in a clinging drunk sloppy way - his feet cold against Dean's, his nose pressing into the crook between Dean's neck and shoulder. "You're going to wake up spooning me and I'm going to_ love_ it."

"You're my greatest downfall," Dean whispers into the night and presses a kiss to Cas's forehead. He feels more exhausted than he has in a long time and can't deny that having Cas in his arms soothes him a bit.

Castiel lets out a sleepy little sigh. "Jus' don't go."

"I won't."

"Just don't. Ever."

"Go to sleep, you drunk idiot."

"Goodnight, Dean."

"Goodnight."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

Castiel groans long and hard as the light cuts on and he slaps a hand to his face - too hard, and he groans again, rolling over in the bed and pressing his face into the sheets. They smell of Dean, perhaps the only comfort in this horrid, horrid morning. "_No_."

"Up and at 'em!" says Dean cheerfully from the edge of the bed. "Come on, sleepyhead. You're gonna want to take a shower before we eat."

"Eat," says Castiel, and thinks about vomiting. Except Dean would probably make him clean it up, the cruel bastard. "No. Sleep. Dean?"

"You want to hear the story of my first hangover?" asks Dean, his voice still far too loud and grating for Castiel's raging headache. "I was fourteen - ah, the glory days - and my dad was on a stakeout, some thing for work. All by my lonesome, I drank far too much whiskey and passed out on the floor in the hallway and not only did he wake me up playing Live and Let Die - effectively ruining that song for me for the rest of my life, the greatest tragedy of it all - but he also made me mow the lawn immediately after and forced me to eat a bowl of spaghetti for breakfast. I threw up twice and it was the worst day of my life. The end."

Castiel hugs a pillow and squints at him miserably, wondering just what he has to do to get Dean to either go away or wrap his warmth around him. "I don't deserve this," is all he says, his voice coming out small and pitiful. "Your terrible friends bullied me into it."

For a moment it looks as though Dean's about to laugh - make a joke, maybe grip Castiel by his ankles and forcefully haul him out of bed like he'd done the night before. And then something in him softens and he says, "I know, baby," and moves to crawl into bed with Castiel, pushing him over and then pulling him against his chest. "You've had it so rough."

"I have," agrees Cas mournfully and wriggles closer, letting his nose bump against the underside of Dean's chin. "Pet my hair."

Dean's chest jumps underneath him as he laughs softly and then a hand comes up, slowly stroking through his hair in the most soothing way possible. The fine hairs part underneath careful fingers, dragging with the leisurely movement of his hand as he strokes from one end of Castiel's head to the other.

"Mmm," says Castiel, the sound dragged from his throat as he slings a leg over Dean's waist and relaxes further, the throbbing in his head fading somewhat at the tranquilizing movement. "Feels nice."

"Your head hurt, baby?"

"Little bit," Castiel mumbles. His eyes are half open, hazy and soft as he sinks into a daze again, Dean's hand ceaseless.

"I should have you drink some water last night, I forgot. Stupid of me."

"You didn't drink?"

"Played the responsible card for once."

"Imagine that. Wish I hadn't been completely wasted for it."

Another soft laugh. "You tried to molest me."

"Mmm, clearly I didn't succeed."

"And how do you know?"

Castiel feels a sleepy grin tug at his lips and tilts his head up, dislodging Dean's hand for a moment as he presses a warm kiss to the stretch of throat before him. "Because, drunk or not, I would have remembered that, I promise," he whispers, voice low.

Dean stirs underneath him and Castiel laughs, resuming his position and closing his eyes as, after a pause, Dean's hand returns to stroking his hair.

"Why not?" asks Castiel, waiting a beat. Keeping his voice casual, he adds, "Just out of curiosity."

"Didn't feel right."

"Oh."

Dean turns, dragging his hand until it's pressed against Castiel's face and he slides down slightly so that their faces are even as he says, "I require full participation and attention during my romantic pursuits," and presses his lips to Castiel's, hungrily.

"Mm," says Castiel and then sucks in a quick breath when Dean pulls back. "Am I being graded?"

"Oh yes," Dean says, and kisses him again.

"And how am I doing, teacher?" His eyes are impish, and he presses forward, not waiting for Dean to answer as he kisses him again, with just a hint of desperation.

"A," says Dean and adds, "Minus." At Castiel's sulk, he grins and kisses him a last time, adding, "There's always room for improvement," before returning to his original position, his heartbeat fluttering rapidly under Castiel's ear.

"You're nervous?" guesses Castiel.

Dean laughs. "Try again."

"Hmm. You stopped touching my hair."

"Needy," Dean observes.

"You like it too, don't deny it."

"You're right, as usual."

"Your father really did those things to you?"

"Really and truly."

Castiel blanches slightly. He can't even imagine eating spaghetti at a time like this - or eating anything, for that matter. Or mowing the lawn. Or listening to Paul McCartney at full volume. "What was the second time you got drunk like?"

"The second time was much less interesting. I was seventeen - yes, it took me three full years to recover from that first experience - and it was just a regular high school party. Nothing exciting."

Except it is, to someone who's never actually been to a high school party. "What's it like?"

"Literally, you're not missing out on anything, Cas. If you ever want to experience the lowest point of humanity, go to a high school party. It's just a bunch of kids with low self-esteem doing stupid stuff to get other kids with low self-esteem to notice them. And inevitably you get busted and then there's nothing but regret."

A part of Castiel wonders if maybe Dean is dressing it down simply because he'll never experience it - and if so, he's a tad bit grateful. "Sounds awful."

"Trust me, it is."

They're silent for a while, Dean combing through Castiel's dark hair until he's fallen back into his stupor, his heart a slow beat of wings on a summer's day. The pounding in his head has faded to a distant ache, and he thinks he could lie here forever with Dean's fingers in his hair and his smell all around him. He's almost about to fall back asleep when suddenly Dean takes in a breath like he's about to speak and then stops.

"Hmm?" manages Cas.

Dean says, "You don't have to try and fit in with them, Cas." His hand stills in Castiel's hair and it's a loss Cas feels throughout his entire body.

It seems like Dean's waiting for something, wants something, but Cas doesn't know what so he just stays silent.

"I mean. You. You're perfect the way you are. You don't have to try and do things you're uncomfortable with just so you think they'll like you more or whatever. If they don't like you, then whatever. Fuck them. Just be yourself."

"No, Dean." His hand tightens in the sheets. "They're your family. You need them. Which means… that I need them too. To like me, to make you happy. But... I'm not. Changing who I am, I mean."

"All right, if you're sure." Dean's voice grows soft. "It's just. I've done a lot of stupid shit over the years for other people, Cas, you know. I've been far too concerned with what other people thought of me and it's made me do some bad things. Things that I later regret. So you know. Just. Don't let that control you."

Castiel drags himself up, holding himself up on one arm as he looks down at Dean with hooded eyes. "Does that mean you'll let them know we're together?" He blinks slow. "Together together? If you don't care what they think?"

The change is small but noticeable to Castiel's sharp eyes: his jaw clenches, his eyes harden slightly, his lips tighten at the corner. He looks away. "That's different, Cas."

"How?"

Now the tension's in his whole body, held like a tight wire. "It's _illegal_, for one."

"It won't be soon. Just a few more months."

"You think a few months matters here? It's not just that. We're partners. We have a federal case that affects millions of lives; there's more important things here than who knows that we're fucking."

Castiel stares at him for a moment longer. The throbbing's back, low and sharp in his temples, and he suddenly realizes his mouth tastes like carpet. Dean kissed him like this? He feels repulsive. "Right," he says. And turns, sliding out of bed. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Cas," says Dean, but Castiel walks on, padding into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

He stares at the toilet and then kneels down and vomits, hard.

* * *

"Dean?" calls Charlie right before the meal is about to start. She's been hovering anxiously at the fringes of the group all morning and while Dean had previously attested it to a raging hangover, now he's beginning to think it might be something more. Something specifically to do with him - which, when it comes to Charlie, is never a good thing. "Can I talk to you in here for a second?"

"Only if you don't take too long. Bass's been eying the slice of turkey I claimed dibs on and if he gets it, I'm going to have to take drastic measures," says Dean with a careless grin, following her out of the room and down a long hallway. "And I've got Cas on my side and I've seen him in action; kid's got moves. Can dodge a bullet and break a guy's neck in the next second. Bass doesn't stand a chance."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually," says Charlie, and when Dean looks around, he realizes they've ended up standing in the room furthest from the kitchen, as though she's incredibly worried of being overheard.

He tries to remain easy. "Bass? Yeah, well, someone's got to set up an intervention about that beard and if has to be us, well, so be it. Or do we cut to the chase and shave it in the middle of the night?"

"Dean," says Charlie quietly. It's a bad sign that she's not playing along, not even trying to look amused - and Dean feels something heavy settle in his chest.

_She knows_, he thinks. _She knows and she's going to bring it to the attention of the OBIT. They're going to lock him up for the rest of his life and they're going to arrest me for statutory rape and he hasn't learned how to even fucking ride a bike yet or play Monopoly or anything, shit, shit._

"It's Cas," she says.

"What about Cas?" he asks blankly. Years of FBI training all led up to this moment so that he could lie to his best friend about his relationship with his underaged partner. Goddamn.

"It's not just him, it's - look," says Charlie, and takes a deep breath. "We all got totally wasted yesterday, right? So I didn't think that much of it. Actually, I'm surprised I even remember it, but."

"But?" Dean prompts.

She looks away and then looks back, her eyes steely. "He said some things yesterday that made me really uncomfortable, Dean. And the worst part was that he didn't even seem to notice that what he was saying was weird or - or odd or anything." She runs a hand through her hair distractedly and then starts pacing, unable to contain it. "Like, okay, he starts off and his first one was 'I've never celebrated Thanksgiving.'"

She pauses and looks at Dean, eyebrows raised, waiting for a reaction, and Dean can suddenly breathe again. "Oh," is all he says, still recovering.

"I think on that one he realized that we were all staring at him - all of us still pretty sober at that point - because he adds, 'With alcohol,' and we all drink and it's funny. No big deal. Maybe that's what he really meant. But then, other ones." Charlie lifts a hand to her face, pressing it to her forehead as though trying to hold something in. "Like. He's never been to a movie theatre before. Or played basketball. I mean, _God_, it's no wonder the kid fucking won when he's -"

"Never ridden a bike," says Dean quietly. "Or played Monopoly. Or a million other things, yeah, I know."

She stares at him. "You _know_?"

He doesn't know what to do; he nods.

"_And_?"

"And?" he repeats. "And he's had a shitty life."

But that's not all and she knows it. And he knows it. "Dean, he didn't _have _a life at all. The kid was raised like a fucking machine for the OBIT's purposes and he doesn't even realize just how bad it really is." She's back to pacing. "He was just fucking ecstatic that everyone accepted him and didn't seem to realize how twisted it was, the things he's never done. And the things he _has _done, Dean, he's had sex with a man. Now I'm the last person to talk about being gay, but how do we know it wasn't some older creep that took advantage of him? I don't trust the OBIT at all and it could easily be one of his instructors or something and he just didn't understand that it was _rape_. Did you know about this?"

Dean's insides have turned to ice. "Charlie, he's my partner," he says in a low voice. "Of course I knew. And it was just some kid he was involved with a year or so ago, okay? You're not telling me anything new, and I don't know what you want from me." He's such a piece of shit.

She comes to another stop, farther away from him this time as she stares at him with disbelief. "Dean. The only reason we even know about this organization is because we've been briefed into the Grace case. Otherwise, it would still be a total mystery to us. Think how many people are out there that don't know about this."

"Hell, Charlie, I _know_," he grits out, running a hand through his hair and feeling more and more frustrated. "It's a fucking disaster - they're torturing kids, raising them like science experiments, taking them away from their parents - they're creating _weapons_, but, Charlie, we can't fight every goddamn war out there. There's just some things we have to let slide right now."

Charlie stares at him for the longest moment with an unreadable expression before she turns and presses a hand to her mouth and then looks back at him, seemingly speechless.

"Charlie," he sighs.

"Dean Winchester," she says, shaking her head once and now the disappointment is clear in her eyes. "You did not just say that."

"You know what I mean."

"You didn't."

"Kids are dying from _Grace_, Charlie, and, yes, dammit, Cas is helping with that, all right?" He sounds desperate, he knows. Raw. "And I need him as a partner, okay? So the OBIT is a fucking mess, yeah, but I can't change that right now when I need Castiel on my side."

Charlie's silent again, pressing her lips together, studying him. "He's just a child, Dean."

He thinks back to calm eyes, to a solemn mouth, to his head thrown back as he comes hard, to a hospital waiting room where he confesses he would be fine with the sacrifice of this one life in order to win the war. "He hasn't been a child for a long time."

"And whose fault is that?"

"We both know whose fault it is."

"So we're just going to let them keep doing it?" Charlie demands.

Dean sighs again. "All right, fine, we'll do it right this second. How do you propose we do it?"

She purses her lips.

"See? Not that easy, is it?"

"You," she says, "can be such an asshole sometimes."

"_Dean!" _comes a faint shout from the middle of the house. "_Charlie! Stop making out and come eat, you little shits!_"

They stare at each other for a moment more, handler and agent, both of them wired and tense. The air crackles, and he remembers that while Charlie Bradbury has never killed a man, she has led to the demise of many and has personally been responsible for solving seventeen different cases of all shapes and sizes. She is a woman of many talents and, when focused on one sole mission, entirely unstoppable.

"They always forget that I'm a lesbian, you know," she says idly.

And she is also one of Dean's best friends.

"You're not going to let it go, are you?" It's a weary question, resigned.

"Of course not."

"You're going to run them to the ground, aren't you?"

"Dean, no." Charlie smiles, rocking forward on her heels, and then tiptoes forwards and presses a soft kiss to his cheek before reaching up to place her lips at his ear and whispers, "I'm going to burn them from the inside out."

He closes his eyes, shoulders sloping with exhaustion, and then thinks of Castiel. Whose innocence is gone forever. Who's had unspeakable things done to him. "Then," he says, "I suppose I should go get the matches."

She pulls back and beams. "That's my boy."

"You are a woman of deep persuasion."

Her expression dims slightly and she reaches out, briefly touching his arm. "This is the right thing, Dean," she says softly. "I know you know it. This is the right thing for Castiel, too."

And maybe that's what's making him do it. "I know."

"Good. Now let's go see if Bass got that piece of turkey; if he did, I'll spear himself myself."

* * *

The rest of the day goes smoothly enough. Rufus and Chuck arrive around two and Garth at three thirty, and even though they were supposed to bring food, Rufus and Chuck only bring more beer with them which no one really complains about. Garth, on the other hand, appears to have made a carrot cake and pecan pie and cherry pie and Castiel doesn't think he's ever seen Dean look happier to see someone in his life.

Thanksgiving is… odd for Castiel. He's never been around so many happy people all at once - everyone he grew up with were either his superior or trained to keep their emotions subdued, so all the laughter and yelling and accusations and teasing is a little overwhelming, to say the least. It certainly doesn't help matters that everyone seems to have gotten over their respective hangovers and are all drinking outrageously. By seven o'clock, everyone is in an absolute stupor, laying around and complaining loudly about how much they've eaten that day, Castiel included.

"I don't think the human body is meant to digest so much at one point," he tells Dean mournfully. They're both on the couch, probably too close to be respectable, but neither one can be bothered to straighten up. Castiel's arm is warm where it's pressed up against Dean's, their legs flush against each other, and despite the tightness of his jeans at his waist, he's never felt more relaxed. "I think I might die."

"There's still leftovers," points out Dean, whose head is lolling back against the couch cushion, his eyes at half-mast and locked on the TV screen where some football team is playing another. "This is just the halfway mark, kid."

"Ugh," says Castiel.

There had been ham and turkey and stuffing and green beans and broccoli casserole and some jello concoction and yams and corn and mashed potatoes and gravy and also three different types of fish for Meg who says she's a pescatarian but was seen several times sneaking a piece of turkey. Then the desserts, of which Garth helped tremendously, and there's also coffee and tea and of course the alcohol and all of it is more than Castiel's ever had access to at one point.

He thinks of what he would be doing if he were still at the facility. Training exercises, definitely. The normal workout, to keep him in top shape, and then something special because it was a holiday - perhaps losing one of his senses while undergoing attackers or facing a new element he hasn't faced before. Beating his own record is usually a Christmas-thing. As far as elements go, he's had extreme heat, extreme cold, underground, smoke, ice, and even a wind chamber, but maybe they'd finally throw him into a pool of water with his hands tied together or something. He never knew what might happen with the lab workers - but whatever they'd give him, it would be hard, it would be long, it would be exhausting and ongoing.

It would not be this. Warm and safe and listening to Dean's breathing grow slower and deeper as he drifts off. It would not be eating too much food and listening to raucous laughter in the other room as they demand details of Charlie's new girlfriend. Castiel sinks lower into the couch, listening as Dean starts to snore softly, and rests his head on Dean's shoulder. He does not deserve this, he knows - it's wrong of him, to be enjoying this quiet moment of happiness when there are others dying because he is not doing his job - but he pushes those thoughts aside of the moment, content to simply exist there with Dean.

They had asked everyone what they were thankful for, earlier before they ate. It was Charlie's idea, which naturally makes a few people complain just out of habit, but eventually everyone agrees to go around the circle and say one thing.

Kevin says Wi-Fi. Meg says boys with hot asses. Dean says boys with hot asses. Charlie rolls her eyes at both of them and says getting to do what she loves as a job. Aaron says turkey; Benny says being with friends; Bobby says not having to see them all together more than twice a year. Ellen makes them all incredibly quiet when she says she's thankful everyone is safe, and then Garth makes everyone roll their eyes when he says he's thankful for everyone's happiness and then tries to pull Dean into a hug who immediately squirms away. Rufus is thankful for shotguns and Chuck is thankful for whiskey and then finally it's Castiel's turn.

He can't think of anything.

Or, rather, he can think of too much. Dean, for one, but he can only imagine what Dean's reaction would be if he said that in front of everyone. This case, these people, this house, this meal, this day, last night. Every second he's spent outside of the laboratory. Every moment in which someone has listened to his opinion instead of ignoring him or punishing him for speaking out of turn.

"Cas?" prompts Dean. They look at each other and Castiel thinks Dean knows it then, what he wants to say, what he's really thankful for.

Castiel says, "I'm thankful for pie," and half the room groans while Dean and Garth cheer. But he can see it - the flash of relief and also something warmer in Dean's eyes when he comes close and claps a hand on Castiel's back, his hand lingering for a moment too long to be purely platonic.

Now, he slides his head up and looks at Dean's sleeping face, at the way his eyelashes brush his cheeks and the slight stubble he's growing in and the way his mouth is slightly parted as he sleeps. Dean may not want to tell the rest of them that they're together, but for now that feels tiny in comparison to what Castiel feels for him.

"I'm thankful for you," he whispers, because it needs to be said, even if no one will ever hear it and Dean will never respond to it. And then he closes his eyes and breathes in the moment, clinging to it while it lasts.

Later that night, when half the group's made it back into the kitchen for leftovers and half the group is back in the living room getting drunk for a third time, Rufus speaks up.

"We've got some stuff," he announces. "Chuck and me."

"Rufus," says Chuck in a resigned voice, his ham sandwich halfway to his mouth, "come on, on Thanksgiving? Can't we do this tomorrow?"

"What for?" demands Rufus. He's steadily eating his way through an enormous bowl of mashed potatoes sopping with gravy. Castiel has learned throughout the day that Rufus is the sort of person that does things on his own schedule, with or without anyone else's permission. He's strong and seems to say everything in an angry sort of voice; Castiel is not a bit ashamed to admit that he's a little terrified of him. He thinks everyone might be, actually, all except for Chuck who just seems exasperatedly used to him. "Everyone's here - this is _time sensitive news_."

"You are such a scrooge," Charlie tells him.

"That's Christmas," points out Benny. No one seems to care that he's not actually on any cases or even involved in the FBI. He made most the food, so Castiel guesses that must count for something.

"Whatever," says Charlie, her go-to word when she has nothing left to say in rebuttal.

"What's time sensitive, Rufus?" asks Dean.

"See?" says Rufus, pointing his fork at Dean with his eyes locked on Chuck. "That's someone who's dedicated to the job. He's going somewhere, while your sorry ass is going to stay with me."

"_So_ dedicated," agrees Charlie and then, "Is that why he can't get a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend, for that matter?"

Castiel pointedly looks away while Dean makes an offended noise. "I'm still under the impression that you made yours up," he tells her. "Unless I see picture proof with you kissing the hell out of her, I refuse to believe."

"Astonishingly enough, your belief or disbelief does not make her tongue any less real."

"Oh, ew," says Dean, and swipes the cookie right out her hand as retribution. This in its own way causes an entire non-verbal spat between them involving a whole lot of childish slapping and biting on Charlie's part.

"Garth's not in here," points out Benny, who is once again proving his ability to ignore all bouts of immaturity from Charlie and Dean and remain fixed on the task at hand. "Isn't he on your case too? Should I go get him?"

Bobby says, "I think I saw him headin' up to the bathroom," and everyone winces except for Castiel who doesn't understand. "Best leave him alone for a while."

"Why?" he dares to ask, and everyone just looks at him with pity.

"I'll tell you later," Dean promises and Charlie says, "He's innocent, Dean. Let one person be innocent of Garth's bathroom behavior," and then Rufus says, "Are we going to fucking talk about the case or not?"

"Thought you were on the witch business?" says Bobby. Their department, small as it is and growing at the pace of a slow drip, has two sections - that of angels and that of witches, the only two known supernatural creatures relegated by the United States government. A third subsection, rarely used due to funding problems, is delegated the job of scouring the earth for undiscovered supernatural creatures but so far had come up with nothing. Rufus had made a title for himself when he tore down a enormous ring of malicious witches controlling members of the UN in the 1970s. Dean had explained all the dynamics of the department briefly one day on a stakeout.

"Been slow, as of late. Thought we'd lend a hand to the other clearly struggling half of our department," says Rufus, rolling his eyes at Charlie and Dean's simultaneous indignant, _"Hey!"_s. "Plus, you know Chuck; small attention span."

"Witches weren't up to anything," complains Chuck. He scratches at his beard. "I mean, we caught one or two with illegal ingredients - one warlock was about to skin a baby, needed the liver for something, just barely caught him - but other than, completely stagnant."

"We don't want your help," begins Dean loudly but Castiel actually _shushes _him and it's enough to make Charlie lose her miffed appearance and break out into choked laughter.

"What is you've found?" he asks politely.

"If you're staying, stay," grunts Rufus. "Sit the fuck down. Otherwise, leave." There's a pause as Charlie, Castiel, Dean, and Bobby all seem to consider obeying or not and then they all move to get chairs, even Bobby. Work has somehow creeped into their holiday, and yet no one is complaining - Dean is clearly not the only one dedicated to his job. They're all a bit obsessed, Castiel realizes as they settle in. "So while the three of you have been dicking around -"

"All right," says Dean, and makes to leave. Castiel tugs him back down.

"While the three of you have been _dicking around_, Chuck and I have been tagging a couple suspects of the usual sort. Found a pretty steady flow of Grace in Southern California; dug a little, both of us, and it led us to a guy that goes by the name Zeke. And…" Rufus leans back in his seat, looking around and then landing his gaze on Chuck. "You wanna do the honors?"

"They're so much nicer to each other than we are," says Charlie in an undertone to Dean that everyone can clearly hear. "Look at that. So polite. Why is that?"

"Because we're both assholes," says Dean as though it's obvious.

"Ah," she sighs. "Mystery solved."

"A date and time," says Chuck. "And a place. Major trading going on at the RDU Airport in North Carolina."

"North Carolina?" scoffs Dean. "What the hell kind of drug dealers are they?"

Benny says, "Missing the point, brother," who is perhaps the only person who could tell Dean to shut the fuck up in such a nice way.

"Shit," says Bobby. He makes a face like this is just one more thing he has to deal with, instead of seeming pleased with the new information. Castiel is beginning to learn that's just what the head of the department is like, however. "When?"

"December 13th," says Rufus. "Here's the dilemma we're facing with this little showdown - do we go for the bust, or do we let it play out and trace it back to whoever's higher up?"

"Higher up," says Dean immediately. "We're in this for the long run, not for some one time hit. Right?" He looks around for confirmation.

"But they already have a squealer," Charlie points out. "This Zeke guy - what do we know about him? Could he get us info on the bigger fish?"

"No go," says Chuck with a pained look, as though he has been through this conversation before. His ham sandwich lies before him, entirely forgotten. "It's a miracle that he even got us this much information. After we learned that, he disappeared completely. No idea where's he at now, or how to get in contact with him."

"Then how do we know his information is reliable?" demands Bobby. "It's probably been compromised by now. He'll have alerted his buddies that we know and we'll be sitting around the RDU all day like a couple of gullible sons of bitches waiting around for something happening in a different state."

"He's got a point," admits Charlie grudgingly.

"Except we've been through this," says Rufus around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. He swallows forcefully. "He didn't disappear from us - he disappeared from _them_. Tell them, Chuck."

"I don't think he's being polite," says Dean in an undertone to Charlie. "I think he just doesn't want to talk. They're definitely as big of assholes as us."

"Politeness with bad intentions is still politeness though," she returns, but looks as though she's thoughtfully considering what he's said.

"Will you two _shut the hell up?_" Bobby says through gritted teeth, looking done with them both. "Chuck, speak, will you? We don't have all day."

Chuck looks thoroughly distracted by that side of the table and he stares blankly into space for a moment before shaking his head. "Right, okay. Uh. Before we lost contact with him, he uh… he told us he had some suspicions that the drug was going to be used for something worse later on. He seemed like he wanted to get out of it all - didn't want to be a source, but didn't want to help them either."

"Something worse?" Benny frowns. "What's worse than what's already going on?"

"You mean the whole luring in preteens and causing them to overdose by the thousands?" Chuck shrugs. "Who knows."

"We're definitely not busting this RDU deal," Dean says, like it's already been decided. He looks grimly determined. "Let's track the hell out of them. Charlie, you got some fancy-ass tracking shit or what?"

"I've got a few things up my sleeve."

"How will we know what these men look like?" questions Dean, first looking at Chuck and then at Rufus.

"Wait, wait," says Castiel, speaking up for the first time in what feels like the entire duration of the conversation. Everyone looks at him and he flushes slightly but holds his ground. "Track them? Wouldn't it make more sense to make one of _them _a source?"

"And how would you suggest doing that?" growls Rufus, sounding like he's giving a quiz.

Castiel doesn't cower though; instead, he shifts back into his military defense stance, back straightening impeccably. "We'd have reasonable enough excuse to arrest one of them - or both, it doesn't matter, and then offer them a plea bargain of a lowered jail time if they give us valuable enough information."

"And how will we know if their information is reliable?" is Rufus's next question.

"Fine," says Castiel. "Get both. See if their answers match up. Tracking them will take months and might not even lead to anything worthwhile; if your Zeke is right and the Grace is all the first step to something worse, then we need to dismantle this ring as soon as possible."

"Well," says Dean and then pauses. Everyone seems to be considering this. "Well," he says again and places his forearm on the table. "Could work. Maybe."

"I'm for it," volunteers Bobby unexpectedly. "If the alternative is just following two assholes around for months, I'd rather just go straight for it. Plus, you idjits already lost one lead; I imagine it'd only take a couple of days for these two to slip you." He rolls his eyes.

"There's so much that could go wrong with this," Rufus warns.

"There's something that could go wrong with it no matter what we do," says Charlie. She makes a face. "Not like we have a lot to go on right now anyway. Can't get much worse. Also - they could have changed the date or place by now, so all this discussion could be completely moot."

"I'm for it too," Dean abruptly decides and Castiel shoots him a grateful look. Dean opposing the idea had been his biggest fear. "All right, can we push the rest of this session to tomorrow? I'm beat. And the group in the next room is having way too much fun without me."

Everyone seems to mutually agree to this without any further discussion and there's a clattering as everyone pushes their chairs back and rise, all except Chuck and Rufus who are still eating and Benny who quietly asks Chuck a question regarding his on-the-side writing.

Castiel trails behind Dean and Charlie as they walk into the other room, smiling absently as the drunken shouting increases - and then he feels a hand touch his shoulder and he turns, startled to find Bobby standing right before him, looking just as rough and intimidating as ever.

"Hey," he says gruffly. "Good input there, kid. Don't be afraid to chime in."

"Er," says Castiel. He stares, wide-eyed and unblinking. "Thank you?"

"How's working with Winchester?"

He glances over into the other room where he can just see the backs of Dean and Charlie. There's a roar of laughter and then it quickly dies down; clearly something illicit is going on in there. He forces his attention back to Bobby. "Good?" It comes out like a question. "Good," he says more firmly. "He's the best partner I could ask for."

Bobby eyes him for a moment, silently. Then he too looks over to where Dean is standing. "I think you're good for him," he finally says. "I don't know what he's told you about his previous cases, but they took a lot out of him. He's young yet, but sometimes I look at him and I see…" he trails off.

"I know," says Castiel quietly. Bobby's eyes flicker back to him, unreadable. "He's ancient."

"Ancient," Bobby agrees. "Don't tell him I told you this, but I see a bit of a difference in him with you. Earlier - I don't think I've ever seen him change his mind so quickly. Especially with so little argument."

Castiel just looks at him. Then he squints slightly and sees something deeper - sees a father behind the scruffy beard and trucker's cap, sees someone who cares impossibly much for Dean Winchester, among others. He sees a man that would do nearly anything for the people he loves, and now Castiel understands where Dean inherited that from. He also realizes just how much it means that Bobby would ever say these things to him, behind Dean's back. "Thank you," is all he says.

"Just keep doin' whatever it is you're doin'," says Bobby, and puts his hand on Castiel's shoulder; he rests it there for half a second before turning and moving away. Castiel wonders if this means he's been accepted into their tight knit little group, if that was his induction of sorts.

He turns away with a queer little smile and goes to find Dean and bask in the feeling of being included.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter** **Sixteen**

"I think I'd like to live in an old house in the country," says Cas one day as they're driving down a long, lonesome stretch of pavement. He's staring out the window with a hungry sort of expression, a longing held in the line of his shoulders.

"Bad Wifi connection," comments Dean and earns a reproving glare for his efforts. He smiles. Unexpectedly he throws down both front windows, causing Castiel to recoil as a blast of cold air sneaks cold fingers inside. Dean laughs and turns on the heater full blast, a sharp contrast, and inhales the bright air filling the car now. Reaches over and takes Castiel's hand unexpectedly, twining their fingers together, simply because he can. "Why do you want an old house in the country?"

"To see the stars," says Castiel.

Dean looks over, studying him for a moment, the way his jawline is outlined in the sun, the way his black hair flutters back in the wind. "You can see the stars anywhere."

"But they're clearest out here, where there's no other lights. I want to be able to come out on the front porch whenever I want and know that I am completely and utterly alone."

"Alone, eh?" asks Dean, frowning. He knows it's just a fantasy, but where is he in this fantasy? Isn't he in the house too?

Castiel glances over and seems to realize this. "You're there too," he tells him. "What I meant was. After a lifetime of being monitored over every little change in my body and temperament and food intake and exercise amount, after being surrounded by faces all the time, studying me - it would be nice to have a night with only the people I choose."

"What else would you choose?"

Castiel leans back, closing his eyes and tightening his hand around Dean's. "Bonfires."

"Bonfires?"

"Where hot little sparks fly off and get carried away in the wind. Marshmallows. The heat flaring in our faces."

Dean grins. "What else?"

"Bikes."

"You don't know how to ride a bike."

Cas says, "I'll learn. I'll learn how to do everything I ever wanted. You can teach me. We can spend the rest of our lives in the house we find - and it'll be a used house, really messed up at first, but we'll fix it up. We can paint it any color we want and get a new front door, re-roof it ourselves. Live in a tent for the first few weeks or months if we have to. We'll make it exactly the way it should be. We'll fix it up so that no one ever knew that it was broken before."

"Got it all figured out, do you?" It's an easy feeling Dean feels, but a strong one, starting hot in his stomach and creeping through his veins like a drug. It is a drug, he realizes - the strongest one out there. Makes him do crazy, stupid, reckless things. He wonders if maybe the house is a metaphor for Castiel himself before dismissing it. "Let me know if you think of something else. I hope you're the one funding all these ideas."

"I want dogs too. Not too many - maybe just one or two. Or three. Did you have any dogs growing up?"

"Nah, that was more of Sam's thing," says Dean lightly, despite the tenseness in his stomach at the thought. "What kind of dogs would you want?" he asks to distract himself.

He seems to think about it for a moment. "Mutts," he finally decides. "Dogs that wouldn't have a home anywhere else. But I think I'd want big dogs, you know, the kind that can take care of themselves if they have to. And we wouldn't lock them up or keep them on a leash because we'd live in a place where no cars ever came."

"Smart. Anything else?"

"Maybe horses too? I don't know, do you think that's too extravagant?"

Dean laughs. "Hey, its your imagination. Put whatever you want in there."

Cas nods. "Then, yes, horses too. So that if we ever did want to get away, we could. And then, we could hook up speaker systems all around the house so that we could play music wherever we wanted, so loudly it vibrates."

"Hey, now that's a good idea. You haven't heard Metallica till you've heard them in surround sound, I'm telling you."

"Once it gets all fixed up, we could invite everyone over for a party," says Cas eagerly. "I bet Charlie would help us plan it. Actually, I bet Charlie would help us fix up the house too."

"You think so?" Dean's amused by how much Cas clearly likes Charlie at this point. "She doesn't seem too into manual labor to me."

"Well maybe she'd help supervise."

"Oh, God, the power would go to her head. She'd be ordering us around for days. No, you know who we'd need? Bobby. Bobby knows more about fixing houses than probably anyone in the world. Give Bobby a broken house, maybe three days and a case of beer, and he'd be good to go."

Castiel tilts his head, his cheek pressed against the headrest, and looks at him. Squints a little. "You'll do it? You'll live in a house with me?"

"Castiel," says Dean. "I will live wherever the hell you want."

It would be worth it, to see that smile that on Castiel's face every day, from sunrise to sundown. It would be worth to be too cold and too hot and itchy with mosquito bug bites and tired from staring at the stars too long - it would all be worth it, all of it, just to live with Cas's happiness.

* * *

It starts just like all the others have, with Castiel walking down a hallway. He's walking along, no particular destination in sight, and then he rounds a corner and suddenly he's back at the OBIT and something's gone wrong. He's lied (or they think he has), or he's failed a training lesson, or he didn't get a high enough score on a test. Whatever it is, he's done wrong and he deserves to be punished for it. The punishments are always different, each time, and this time it's one of the very worst. For him, at least. Everyone probably has a different idea of 'worst'.

For him, it's the waterboarding.

He's strapped down, the chair tilted back so that his head is closest to the ground.

"Please don't," he says, because he always begs in these dreams, without fail. And, without fail, they always ignore him. "Please. I'll do better, I swear."

A blank-faced worker makes a gesture and he doesn't have a moment to think before the water is in his throat, in his nose, clogging every airway he has and he's choking. Everything in his body screams for release, for air, but no one hears. No one ever hears, and the water pours into his face for too long. He's going to die like this, strapped to some board, punished for something he didn't even do.

The punishments may vary, but the ending is always the same: He jerks awake, heart pounding and body covered in a thin layer of sweat.

He's got - he's got to get - he scrambles up and trips out of bed, nearly hitting the ground before he catches himself and aims for his suitcase.

Behind him, Dean stirs and sleepily searches for him. "Cas?" he asks, voice rough with sleep.

"It's okay, Dean," he says, but his voice trembles and it is so clearly _not _okay. "Go back to sleep."

Contrarily, Dean sits up further and peers through the darkness. Castiel can feel him watching him as he scrambles for his pills - _where are they, where are they _- and his hand just barely lands on the precious bottle when Dean says, "Wait."

Castiel freezes, muscles locking up in order to prevent himself from disobeying and downing two pills immediately like he wants to. "What?"

"Did you have a nightmare?"

He grits his teeth. "Obviously." The sweat is drying on his skin now, and his shirt sticks messily to his back. He's shaking too, a constant tremor running through his aching muscles as he tries to calm himself down._ Medicine, take your medicine, everything will be fine again if you just take your medicine. _"Dean -"

"I don't think you should take it," says Dean. Getting out of bed, he comes around to stand a few feet away from Castiel, watching him with an unreadable look. "I think - Cas, stand up."

Unwillingly the teenager obeys, getting to his feet and standing there stiffly. No matter how hard he holds himself, however, it doesn't stop the trembling. "Dean, I don't think you understand." He speaks like he's talking to a child or to a particularly stubborn animal. "I - I _need_ them, you can't - what are you doing?"

Because Dean's barely listening to him; instead, he moves forward and bends forward, plucking the pills in question out of Castiel's bag and examining them closely. Shaking one out, he stares at it closely and then turns to Castiel. "What did you say these were?"

"They're - nothing, they're my daily regiment, I take them for -"

"Control," says Dean, nodding. "Yeah, you said that at the beginning. I didn't really… connect… Cas, I _really _don't think you should be taking these. They're made by the same assholes that made the _other _pills," he gives Cas a significant look. "And they make you take them every day? Cas, what if they're addictive? And they're using them to keep you coming back for more or something?"

"I -" now his teeth are starting to chatter, shoulders shaking. "D-Dean, if I d-don't h-_have_ it -"

"Hey, hey," says Dean quickly, moving forward and pulling Cas to him. He strokes his hand up Castiel's arm in a soothing motion. "Cas, it's okay. God, you're freezing. Let's go back to bed, okay?"

"D-_Dean_ -"

"Look, the very fact that you're protesting so much says something, don't you think? Are you taking them because you think you'll get in trouble if you don't? Because I can tell you right now, I'm not telling anyone about this," he says, eyebrows drawn together. "This isn't a test. You're not going to be punished for not taking them. I just… just a few days without them, to see what happens. Okay?"

Castiel shoots him a pleading look - he _needs _the pills, especially now, especially with the nightmare still fresh in his mind every time he so much as blinks - but unlike the incident where Dean forced the OBIT pills on him, Dean only seems concerned about his well-being. There's nothing malicious in his intentions, and so Castiel allows himself to be led back to the bed and tucked in. Dean folds himself against Castiel's back, holding him close to his chest as he spoons up against him. Cas can feel his hot breath on the back of his neck, and while it's comforting, it's not _enough_.

Five minutes in and he's still shaking.

"Cas," says Dean quietly. "Man, you got to chill out. Relax."

"I can't," whispers Castiel. "If I fall asleep…" He can't say it.

Dean's silent a moment and then he shifts, pulling away from Cas. "Stay still," he says at Castiel's protesting little noise, and like an obedient little soldier, Cas does. And when Dean pushes at his shoulder, turning him onto his stomach, he obeys that as well, going flat against the mattress. "Relax," Dean says again, but when his hands start putting pressure on Castiel's back, he finds it even more difficult to relax. He lays there, stiff as a board, while Dean kneads his back with strong hands.

"Come on, Cas," coaxes Dean after a moment of that. He leans forward, nuzzling the back of Castiel's neck before placing a kiss there - it tickles and Castiel shifts a little. "Maybe without the shirt?"

Castiel lays there for a second, as though he hadn't heard, and then at Dean's gentle prodding lifts his torso up as Dean helps drag his shirt off. Then he lays back down, burying his face in Dean's pillow as Dean massages him. He's still shaking - but less so, and as Dean rubs his shoulders and then presses into his shoulder blades and then further down his back, he quiets more and more, sinking into the mattress until he's soft and pliant.

"That's it, baby," says Dean softly. Cas feels the bed shift slightly and then warm lips press to the top of his spine and then down - scattered every few inches, lovingly. He pauses just at the edge of Castiel's soft pajama pants and then asks hoarsely, "Are you tired yet?"

He hesitates and then, honestly: "No."

"Want me to help with that?"

This time there's no hesitation. "Yes."

"Up," says Dean, hands on either side of the plaid pajama pants. Castiel arches his hips, expecting Dean to take his boxers off as well but instead he leaves those on, depositing the pants somewhere off the bed and leaning into kiss Castiel's shoulder blades again. "You don't need those pills, Cas. You are strong enough on your own."

_I'm not_, thinks Castiel, but only presses his face down harder into the pillow as Dean kisses his back. This time he makes it to the top of Castiel's ass before he stops again and now he moves, climbing between Castiel's legs. Cas can feel his eyes on him and squirms slightly, heat raising to his face. _What is he looking at?_

"Beautiful," murmurs Dean, and then he drags the boxers down, and continues his pathway down, pausing to nip lightly at one cheek. Castiel really has no idea where this could be going - though he can't deny it feels good - and so when Dean suddenly puts his hands on his thighs and pushes his lower body up into a rather exposed bend, he suddenly feels apprehensive. And then - and then, oh, God, Dean spreads his cheeks and _licks, _a long stripe that goes from perineum to his hole, and Cas literally squeaks.

"Like that?" asks Dean, laughing slightly, and then immediately licks again. And again. He groans deep in his throat and spreads Cas wider, focusing his attention solely on Castiel's hole now as he drags his tongue flat over it. It is the strangest sensation possible, and it makes him feel dirty and vulnerable and _open_, like Dean has found the most sensitive part of him and is exposing it to the whole world.

"Oh," says Cas, and then, ragged, like it's being pulled from him, "_Oh_, God, Dean, don't stop - don't -"

He can only imagine what Dean must look like in this angle - with his face buried in Castiel's ass like he _loves_ it, groaning like he _needs _it, and it makes Castiel shudder from head to toe. "I - I - I -"

There's just the slightest reprieve when Dean lifts his head and when Cas moans helplessly, Dean just laughs again. "Just getting it wet, sweetheart," he says, and Cas doesn't have time to wonder what 'it' is before Dean presses a finger into him, deep. He barely adjusts to the feeling before Dean adds his tongue as well and a string of incoherent words leave his mouth as he arches his hips back, _pressing his ass into Dean's face_. He struggles to get a grip on himself and lowers his hips down slightly, unable to believe his own nerve at doing it in the first place - but Dean grips his hip with his free hand, dragging him back up.

"No, I like it," says Dean breathlessly.

As if that isn't the hottest thing he could have possibly said to Castiel.

It doesn't last long.

Dean has to hold him down as he nears the end - and the finger's gone, both hands on his hips, but Cas doesn't even care. If anything it's even better, because now that Dean's loosened him up some, he has room to lick deeper - and Cas has never felt anything like it in his life. He shakes, trembles, says Dean's name over and over again like it is the only word he knows - and when he comes, it's completely untouched, pleasure rippling through him like an earthquake. He rolls over once Dean pulls away and watches with glassy eyes as Dean shoves his own pants down and fists himself, head thrown back and tendons in sharp relief.

"So hot," he mutters, almost more to himself than anything else. "Fuck, watching you underneath me… _need_ it, your tight little hole around my tongue… _Cas_…."

"Come on, Dean," murmurs Cas hazily, letting his head slide down the pillow as he watches. "Come for me…"

Dean comes, almost like it was an order. He lets out a long groan as he does so, the sound almost enough to make Cas hard again. Watching Dean… seeing how much he's affected by Cas… it's still mind-blowing to him sometimes, that he has this much power over one person.

After being powerless his entire life, it's sort of a nice feeling.

"Come here," says Dean, after he's cleaned himself up with a tissue and has laid back down on the bed. He holds up an arm, gesturing, and Cas drags himself closer, muscles lax as he lays his head on Dean's chest. "Better?"

"Mm. Much better. Can you do that every time I have a nightmare?"

"Don't be greedy," Dean says.

Cas smirks. "Oh, I'm sorry - what was it you just masturbated to? No, we don't have to do it again if you don't want to."

"Number one - don't say masturbate, you sound like a weird sex ed teacher. Number two - who are you and what have you done with Cas? Stop smirking."

Cas smirks harder.

"Go to sleep."

"Kiss me first."

"What if my mouth tastes weird?"

"Kiss me anyway," Castiel commands, and tilts his head up, and the angle might be awkward but the kiss is not - it is sweet and warm and comforting and slow and when Dean licks into Castiel's mouth, he most certainly does _not _taste weird. He slips down a little afterwards, curling up into Dean's side, and rests his head directly over Dean's heart. His eyes slip closed. "Don't let me dream, Dean."

"I won't," he promises.

"You'll be there when I wake up?"

"Always."

And with that promise resting on him, he sinks back down into slumber.

* * *

The withdrawal symptoms kick in the next day.

At first it's just a headache. Just tension in his temples, like something is compressing the sides of his head. The pressure is manageable, and he grits his teeth and bears it. Then the nausea comes next. Like his stomach is churning and frothing, burning whenever he moves too quickly. It makes his head swim as well, always concentrating to not throw up, and he grits his teeth and bears it. He's not weak - he's not a child. Dean's right, the pills are obviously wrong for him, and all he has to do is get through this first period without it and he'll be fine. It will pass. He knows it will. He's strong, he's a soldier.

The sleeplessness comes third. He knows he should tell Dean at this point, knows he should mention that he doesn't sleep but for a few hours each night - the majority of the time spent with eyes squeezed tightly shut and body held as tense as wire. He does everything he can think of at that point, purposely slowing his breathing and clearing his mind - but nothing works. He goes through one night like this, then the next. By the third day of not sleeping, of headaches and barely eating, he thinks he might die. But still he holds his tongue.

Then the shakes come.

They're at the office, and Dean is busy at his desk; Castiel is staring blankly out the window with his arms wrapped tightly around his middle when Charlie calls his name. He starts, jerking around, and then glances quickly at Dean to see if he noticed - but he's still occupied.

"Coming," he calls, and moves hurriedly past Dean. He's sweating, pale and aching cold, trembling all over. The door to Charlie's office is open, and she's straining against a file cabinet.

"Hey!" she says brightly, straightening and wiping her forehead. "Redecorating. Mind lending a hand?"

"S-sure," he says, moving forward and feeling his stomach lurch threateningly. Why can't he tell Dean what's wrong? Why can't he ask for help? But every time he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. Now, he moves forward, towards Charlie. His elbow catches the edge of a cup at the side of the desk by accident, sending it sailing forward, and he jerks back as it crashes into the floor, staring at it in horror. Coffee leaks into the carpet. "I'm sorry! I'm - I didn't mean - I - I -"

"Hey, chill," says Charlie easily, grabbing a dirty towel hanging from the chair and bending down. She glances up through her hair to smile at him, saying, "Just an accident, Cas -" before frowning. Slowly, she straightens. "Hey, you okay?"

He can't stop. He needs the pills. It feels like his emotions are wildly bouncing around, leaping everywhere like grasshoppers - like he's feeling everything and anything all at once. But mainly what he feels is fear. "P-p-please," he manages, gripping his hands together to keep them from shaking. His eyes are wide and shining. "Please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean -"

"Cas," she says quietly and steps forward, reaching out even as he flinches away. Her hand touches his face and her frown deepens. "Cas, you're burning up. Come with me."

He doesn't know what's wrong with him. What's wrong with him? Why is he so out of control? Is this what the pills were preventing? He _needs_ them, aches for them, he feels wide open without them -

She takes his hand, pulling him with her back out into the open area where Dean's desk is. "Dean, touch his forehead."

"I'm busy," says Dean, not looking up.

"_Dean_," she says sharply, her voice cracking like lightning.

He looks up, caught offguard, and looks at her for a moment before his gaze slides to Castiel. Instantly, he stands up, moving to hover over Castiel with a concerned expression. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Touch his forehead."

Castiel tries to flinch away again, but Dean moves with him as he places the back of his hand against Castiel's forehead, still wearing that concerned look. Castiel doesn't think he's ever actually seen that look on anyone before. "Cas - holy shit, you're on fire." And then all of a sudden something dawns in his eyes and Castiel knows that he knows. "Must be the flu or something."

"Take him home," says Charlie firmly. "Cas, you should have said something earlier. This idiot wouldn't know a sick kid even if he was covered in his own puke."

"I'm not a kid," says Castiel faintly, because now he's swaying slightly.

"Course you're not," says Dean in a placating voice. "Now let me take you home and tuck you in and buy you chicken noodle soup."

"I've never had chicken noodle soup," Castiel tells him.

"Well there you go," says Dean, forcing a smile. "First time for everything."

They don't go to Bobby's, like Castiel expects - that is, after all, what Dean meant by 'home' since he doesn't have one of his own - but instead to the fanciest hotel he's been to with Dean by far. Dean carries his bags and doesn't say much up the elevator, but he keeps cutting these sideways looks to Castiel when he think he's not looking, studying him in a quiet way that Castiel doesn't like. He's messed up. Again. Somehow. He doesn't know how, but he knows he's messed up. The shaking gets worse.

"Please, Dean," he says once the door's closed behind them. "I k-know what you said, but please can I just -"

"I know this sucks, Cas," says Dean quietly without looking at him. "I know. But you can't take them. There's a reason you're going into withdrawal, and that's because your system's been trained for who knows how long to depend on it - which is _wrong_, you see? They want you to think you need it, but you don't."

"B-but-"

Now Dean turns, placing one warm palm against Castiel's face and looking at him intently. "You'll get through this. I'll be right here the whole time."

He shakes so hard his teeth chatter. "I - I - I _know_. I just -"

"Come here," says Dean, and pulls him into a hug, holding him tightly. Castiel buries his face in Dean's shoulder, his whole body like a leaf in the wind, and clutches him. The anxiety is nesting in his mind like a snake, coiled up and blinking at him, waiting to strike at the opportune moment. It hisses in his ear, _You need this. You're weak without it_, and he tries not to listen. He tries so hard.

"H-how long will t-the withdrawal last?" he manages after a moment.

Dean pulls away slightly to look down at him. "I don't know," he says finally. "You've been going through it for three days now?"

Castiel nods miserably.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He doesn't know what to say, so he just stands there silently, shaking. It no longer occurs to him to worry whether or not Dean will punish him for subordinance, but he's still worried that Dean might be angry.

But Dean's not angry; he nods. "Right. So, it's been getting worse?"

"Yes."

"Started off as what?"

"Headache… then nausea. Now it's…" Castiel gestures to himself.

"Maybe you're peaking," says Dean, sounding as though he doesn't believe himself. "At the most, it should be only be two weeks - hopefully shorter. Maybe only one. Maybe less. We should keep optimistic."

It's hard to feel optimistic when the world is spinning slightly around him, but Castiel feels stronger with Dean's hopeful eyes on him. "Okay," he says.

"Okay," says Dean. "Let me make you a bath. It'll make you feel better, I promise. Come on."

"I've already had a shower today," says Castiel in a confused voice, but follows willingly anyway. He shakes, his head aches.

"A bath is different than a shower," says Dean, moving to the enormous clawfoot tub in the far corner of the room. Castiel is beginning to wonder if perhaps this is the reason Dean chose such an expensive hotel. "I -" he looks back. "You've never had one before, have you?" He looks like he knows the answer.

"What do you think?"

The water is hot, and Castiel grits his teeth at first as he dips one foot into the tub and then forces himself to slide the rest of the way in. It's worth it though - as soon as he's completely emersed, arms resting on the edge of the tub, he feels the water sink into his skin and send a delicious shudder up his spine. He rests his head back on the edge of the tub, eyes closed, and just rests there for a moment as the chills slow. His head still aches, but it's dimmer now, repressed by the bone deep warmth spreading through him. Steam curls up off the water, breaking into ribbons in the air, and he inhales deeply, feeling it spread through his lungs. He is warm, he is safe.

Dean moves around him, coming to rest on the floor behind him, and then suddenly fingers are in his hair. Castiel sighs a little, slipping down further into the tub, and gives another little shudder at the contact. Dean shifts a little, sliding a hand into the water and then bringing his hand up with a little pool of water in it, soothing it over Castiel's hair. Little streams of water run down his neck.

But the warmth of the pool is nothing compared to what it does for his mind. Time drips forward, and Dean starts humming lowly behind him. His breathing evens out, heart rate dropping, and it feels like every muscle in his body loosens. He is reminded once more that he is strong enough to survive without pills from the OBIT. He is strong, he has Dean.

Dean… "Did you want to come in?" he slurs out after a moment. He's drifting, the water heating him into a stupor.

"Mmm, that's okay," says Dean's voice, low and close to his ear. "This is just for you, baby. We can have one with the two of us later." He drops a kiss on the top of Castiel's head and then up, on his forehead, leaning over him and kissing a line right down to the tip of his nose. Then he's gone again, leaving Castiel's lips tingling.

"This feels nice," sighs Castiel, eyes still closed. His arms slide boneless into the water, just his head exposed, and Dean scoops up more water to run into his hair. He could do this forever and be content. The shakes have finally stopped. "You really think it will end soon?"

"Tomorrow you'll be good as new," Dean promises.

And even if he isn't, Castiel knows Dean will stick with him anyway. That's enough.

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry for the wait, it's finals this week and I'm going a bit crazy (read: a lot crazy). Sort of made out with someone I shouldn't have on LDOC and now I'm dealing with that as well, and poor Dean and Cas got neglected in all the madness. The bath is credited to avyssoseleison; sorry if there's any mistakes, I didn't get a chance to read over it! Hopefully I'll be posting in my regular schedule again this week.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

By the time December 13th rolls around, everyone is on edge and ready for action, even Castiel.

It's been decided that Charlie and Chuck will be situated in different parking lots, waiting for anything suspicious, while Dean, Cas, Rufus, Garth, and Bobby take up positions in Terminals one and two, as they hadn't been able to gather which Terminal the deal would take place in. Two of Rufus's lesser known friends work in security and are watching the cameras of some of the harder to spot places, like the bathrooms and elevators. No doubt the drugs and money would both be in their own individual suitcase - the least conspicuous item found in an airport. The only problem is that no one actually knows when the deal might happen - or if it'll even happen at all, if Zeke has double crossed them. The failure to produce that one crucial little detail has meant that all seven of them have been monitoring the airport since approximately three in the morning which means that approximately all seven of them are slowly going insane.

Dean is currently trying to get Castiel to get him a Cinnabon using his headset.

"I will pay you back," he swears. "Scouts honor."

"Were you a boy scout, Dean?"

"Beside the point. Cas, I'm fucking _starving_."

"Why didn't you get something when Charlie asked you an hour ago?"

"Because I wasn't as hungry then. But now it's all I can think about. I'm willing to do absolutely anything, I swear to God."

"Sell your soul?"

"If there is one thing in the world I would sell my soul for, it is easily a Cinnabon."

The headset crackles against his ear as Cas clearly shifts, wherever he is. Dean tries to picture him - probably with furrowed eyebrows and a slight pout to his lips, disproving as ever. "Cinnabons are the unhealthiest food I've ever heard of, Dean."

"Clearly you've never heard of deep-fried butter then."

"Please tell me you made that up."

"Welcome to North Carolina, please enjoy your stay."

"Utterly horrifying."

"Honestly, though, I still can't understand why any sane drug dealer would do it in an airport. Specifically this one, for God's sake."

"Well, precisely because you wouldn't expect it," says Castiel, in a the sort of voice he gets when he thinks something is glaringly obvious. "Yes, most lower drug deals occur in rundown neighborhoods or street corners, but this sort of product would have to be traded in a crowded area that will bring about the least suspicion. Someone trading suitcases in an airport would never be noticed, which allows for a large transfer to be made right in front of everyone. It's kind of brilliant."

"Wow, Sherlock, what are you going to deduct for us next?"

"What does Sherlock have to do with this?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Forget it."

Silence falls over the line and Dean scans his section of the terminal, crossing his legs one way and then shifting them the other way a moment later, his back aching. He's seen tired businessmen, he's seen excited teenagers on their way to a vacation, he's seen more families reunite than he's ever cared to. Some young wives and husbands embrace passionately, kissing heatedly right there in the middle of the terminal - other spouses stand back with a soft smile as the kids scream and run towards the returned parent - and still others look weary and just barely able to manage a greeting, looking all the while as though they'd rather be anywhere else.

How does it get that way? How does a lifelong love transform from youthful passion to eternal exhaustion? Where does the bickering and the snipes and the criticism find a way in? It makes Dean itchy, makes him want to run away from all forms of commitment and bury himself deep in hard liquor and even harder cases. Work his life away, drink his fears into submission, the Winchester way.

"The world's a bitch," he says aloud, forgetting for the moment that he's got an earpiece in.

"You must be living in a different one than I am."

"Don't be weird and sentimental when I want to be a crabby old man."

He can almost hear the smile in Castiel's silence. He pictures him with his little book open, looking innocent and delectable (to Dean anyway) and like he's just sitting there reading when in reality his eyes are catching every little movement in front of him.

"I like it when you're a crabby old man."

"Sick and twisted," Dean comments idly, and he catches the eye of a pretty redhead across the terminal who has been giving him the bedroom eyes for the past ten minutes. He gives her a bland smile and looks away, just barely catching the frustrated tilt to her lips a moment later. How long has it been since he's even thought about a woman? Instead his mind is occupied with one skinny seventeen-year-old doing all sorts of inappropriate things. "You like it that I'm old?"

There's quiet laughter in his ear, warming him to the bone and making it so even his aching hunger dims a little. "You're not old, Dean."

"I'm old enough to be your father," argues Dean, and reaches beside him, pulling open his spare newspaper that he's read cover-to-cover four times now and snapping it open. He sinks behind it.

Castiel makes a little noise torn between amusement and disbelief. "_Father_. You're only fourteen years older than me."

"Some people are parents at fourteen."

"Name three that you know right now."

Dean decides Cas has spent far too much time with him and Charlie. He never used to be this mouthy before. His prick, damn thing, sort of likes it. Wants to do inappropriate things to Castiel right here and now in the middle of the airport. Wants to keep his mouth occupied in other ways so he can't talk back.

"Go to your room," says Dean in a low voice, a thrill shooting through him at his own daring. "Lay down."

"Dean, what in the world are you -"

"When I get there, I'm going to tie you up and teach you some proper respect."

The line goes dead silent. He can't even hear Castiel's breathing any more.

"Would you like that? Maybe I'll tie your hands to the headboard and tie your feet to the end of the bed, keep you spread eagle and wide open for me."

Castiel's breathing again and it's a heavy sound in Dean's ear, harsh. Dean pictures his hands tight on his book, fingers white at the knuckles with the force of his grip. Maybe he's lowered it to his lap so that it will cover any bulges, and he's staring down at it with that wide-eyed frozen look of want and disbelief. There is a sharp energy pulsating through Dean at doing this in public, on the fucking job. God, he's sick.

"Maybe I'd leave you like that for a little bit. Get you all sopping wet and ready for me and then leave you wanting, make you beg for it. Wait until you whine my name."

"_Dean,_" says Cas. It's not a whine at all but rather husky, almost a growl - but still just as blatantly needy.

"Yeah, just like that. And I'll make you tell me all the things you want me to do to you - make you feel all dirty and ashamed that you want them, make you _beg_ -"

"Not ashamed," growls Cas in his ear. "Never ashamed of wanting you."

"It's for the _game_, Cas," says Dean, breaking character for a moment in fond exasperation. He hears Castiel shift again in his ear and takes the time to scan the terminal again, but there's absolutely nothing out of place. No shady figures, no suitcases changing hands. They might have already missed it, for all he knows, or it might be a little kid doing the deed, or any number of things might have already gone wrong.

"Go on," says Castiel.

Dean blinks. Realizes he's nearly tearing his newspaper from how tightly he's gripping it and nearly laughs at himself before remembering he's got a horny seventeen year old on the line who is _asking _for phone sex. Chokes a little and then composes himself.

"I stare down at your naked body… struggling to get free."

"I want to touch you." It's a dark little whisper that makes Dean, fuck, so hard. Cas is the one that should be talking right now - he's got the perfect voice for it, low and husky, as though he's been deepthroating someone for hours now. With just enough innocence behind it to remind Dean over and over again how wrong this whole thing - half the appeal in moments like these.

"Touch me how?" he prompts.

"All over. Everywhere. I just want my hands on you."

"I'd use that against you. I'm teaching you a lesson here, remember? The more you struggle, the more you reach out, the longer it takes me. I'd wait until you finally fall still, completely frozen… then I'd whisper 'don't move,' and slide my hand along your stomach." If anyone could hear him right now, they'd think he was a total psychopath, talking to absolutely no one in sight. Of course, if they knew who he was actually talking to, they'd probably arrest him, so maybe psychopath is an all right path to take.

"I wouldn't move," whispers Castiel, sounding as though he's not moving now either, frozen in his seat. Dean pictures his eyes wide-open and staring, pupils dilated until the bright blue is only a thin ribbon around the edge. He unconsciously licks his lips. "No matter what you did to me, I'd stay perfectly still."

"That's right, baby," says Dean. "Because you're a good obedient little boy, aren't you? Maybe as a reward I'd get on the bed between your knees and lean down, dragging my hands up your thighs…"

"_Dean_," says Castiel again, and God, Dean could listen to him say his name all day. "Dean - Dean, they're here. Outside D5."

It's like being doused in cold water. Immediately, he sets both feet firmly on the ground and sits up straight, one hand moving to the back of his trousers were his gun resides, the other casting the crumpled newspaper aside. "In front of you? How do you know?"

"Enochian tattoos," comes the answer. "I see it on the wrist of one of them. I can't read what it says from this distance, but it's _definitely_ Enochian. One male, one female. Male is 5'10", ethnicity east Indian, Appalachian baseball cap. Female is 5'6", blonde, nondescript clothes."

"Up," says Dean. "Tail them. Inconspicuously. I'll alert the others." He's on his feet, moving at a brisk pace (_can't run, can't be noticed_) and he reaches down as he slips between two families to twist the knob on the headset controller, placing him on Channel 2 which is Rufus and Garth. "Terminal two," he says shortly. "D5. I'm headed over now; Castiel's already on them; alert the others."

"Make no arrests until I get there," comes the reply. "Absolutely _no gunfire_. Civilians are to be protected at all costs."

"I know," says Dean tersely. "Switching back over."

"Confirmed."

He clicks the knob back to Channel 3 and says, "Cas?" At this point, Dean's made it to D3 and he starts to speed up, unable to spot the two people Castiel had described.

The line crackles and then all of a sudden Castiel's voice bursts into his head, clear and urgent, "The deal's done - I see you, she's coming your way! I'm following the male in the opposite direction, _tail her_!"

"What the hell does she look like?" demands Dean wildly as he comes to a dead stop in the middle of the terminal and scans the area before him. He sees a group of people all walking in different directions with different goals in mind, he sees men dressed in military uniforms, he sees a confused German family trying to ask for directions, and then - a blonde with a red rolling suitcase and a tight, tight skirt striding purposefully towards him.

"Gotcha," he says.

Except - just there a few feet behind her is _another_ woman with blonde hair at the exact same height, this one wearing a black pantsuit and carrying a briefcase in addition to a suitcase.

"Shit. Cas - pants or a skirt?"

"_Busy,_ Dean."

The crowd swirls all around him and they're both walking at a brisk pace, and now one of them - Pantsuit - is branching off, _shit shit shit_, which one is the dealer? Dean takes a step towards Pantsuit than back to Skirt and Cas had said nondescript, hadn't he?

Dean takes off after Pantsuit. He's almost lost sight of her and he speeds up, weaving through the milling strangers as he tries to keep her in sight - there's one way to make sure he picked the right one and that is the tattoo. Tattoo on the wrist, and she's the one. The only problem is that she's wearing long sleeves and Dean growls an expletive, moving faster. He's just going to have to go in for it, no other way around it - nearly jogging now, _definitely _earning looks, Dean presses in front of her and then darts out, grabbing her arm and pulling it up to the light.

"What the hell -" she begins, but he's already pulled the jacket down and seen the clean skin of her wrist and is reaching out for the other - "Stop! Someone help!" - and jerking her sleeve down on that arm too and -

"God damn it," growls Dean, and then, "Sorry, wrong person," and he's gone again, back to where he last saw the other woman.

"Winchester, you there?" comes Rufus's voice in his ear.

He closes his eyes in pure frustration for a moment and then opens them once more. "Copy."

"You with the woman?"

Grits his teeth for a moment. "There were complications. She… escaped me."

There's a short pause and then, gruffly, "To Agent Novak. We're taking in the male."

He fucked up, he knows it, but there's nothing he can do about it now so he simply says, "Copy that," and moves to find his partner. His underage partner who has now scored a Grace dealer all by himself. A part of him wants to feel jealous, but he only feels a sharp sting of pride that grows when he reaches Castiel at D5.

"Where's the suspect?" he asks once he's close enough.

Castiel, for his part, doesn't look the slightest bit prideful, only matter of fact and maybe mildly satisfied that the job has been completed. "Already taken to the car. We're to follow. What happened?"

Dean makes a disgruntled face and reaches down to flick off his earpiece, pulling it out of his ear and watching Cas do the same. "Two women, both blonde, both 5'6" came at me. What are the fucking chances? I chose the wrong one, and that's the end of that. Shit happens."

"Wait -" the boy blinks and then he looks distraught. "That's why you asked about the clothing? Dean, it's my fault."

"Oh, shut up. You just bagged a suspect and it'll probably be the reason the entire drug ring gets busted. Come on, I'll buy you Taco Bell to celebrate."

"I've never had Taco Bell before," says Castiel, trailing behind and still looking the slightest bit like a kicked puppy. "It's Mexican food, right? Is it culturally appropriate?"

Dean snorts. "Cas, you have _no _idea."

Tacos in hand, it's to the nearest police station, where they'd previously set up a questioning room - two, really, but now they only need the one - and that's where Dean and Cas head to, opening the door and moving inside the darkened room where the rest of their team stands and looks through the one-way mirror at the proceedings at hand.

"Did we miss much?" asks Dean, taking a bite of his soft taco as he moves to stand next to Charlie.

"No," she says absently and then glances sideways and starts. "Dude. You didn't get the rest of us some? Not cool."

"It's Cas's celebration food," he tells her. "He was a Taco Bell virgin up until about thirty seconds ago."

Charlie says, "A _what_? God, that should be illegal. What do you think then?"

Around a mouthful of Taco: "Mussth."

Charlie looks to Dean for a translation, and he grins. "Messy."

"Wow, I wonder what it must be like to experience Taco Bell for the first time again."

"Probably inspirational. The sort of thing songs get written about." Dean takes another bite and then turns his attention finally to the interrogation room - and then chokes, swallowing hastily and then going into a painful coughing fit. "That's him?"

This time when Castiel speaks, it's without food in his mouth. "That's him. Is something wrong?"

"It's just - I know him," says Dean, taking a step towards the mirror and watching as Rufus slams his hand on the table. "I met him at the club. He took me to meet Azazel - has anyone figured out his name yet?"

"Cooper Elmes," says Bobby, and Dean sees he's holding a file. "Previously arrested for a DUI and a couple speeding tickets, but that's all."

"Wait - Bobby? What're you doing in here? Aren't you going to go play Good Cop to Rufus's Bad Cop?"

And then the door to the interrogation room opens -

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," says Dean. "_Garth_? Garth's gonna be the one to bust the deal open?"

"It was going to be you," says Charlie. She looks as though she's been dying to say something this whole time, eyes full of glee. "But _someone _had to stop and get Taco Bell for his boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," snaps Dean, and there's two times that he's fucked up in a twenty minute period. It's _his _case, his fucking case, and he hasn't done a single productive thing for it this entire time - but leaving in a rage wouldn't help anything, he needs to be here to hear what Elmes has to say, so instead of doing anything he just sinks into a sullen silence.

Castiel looks more and more guilty at his side.

"We know you're involved," says Garth in a gentle voice inside the room. "It's not looking good for you, buddy. The FBI wants someone to take the fall for a line of charges they got connected to this particular drug and if they don't get someone else, they're going to take it out on you, you feel me?"

Elmes just stares at him, hard.

"They need Benny," says Charlie offhandedly. "If Benny were offering me a plea bargain, I'd take it no matter what, even if I was offering up my own mother."

The side of Dean's mouth twitches unwillingly in humor and then he glares even harder and refocuses his attention.

"Just one name," says Garth, giving one of those Garth-esque smiles that he has. He's not quite Benny, but he's still got a way about him that somehow makes Dean hug him even when it's the last thing he wants to do. "Who sent you? Who gave you the drugs to trade?"

Elmes shifts forward and opens his mouth, clearly about to speak; everyone in the room leans forward a bit, waiting, and then he says the one fated word that every officer and agent always dreads: "Lawyer."

"Shit," says Bobby.

Which about sums it up.

Except - Dean moves forward and presses the intercom button that connects to both Rufus's and Garth's earpiece and says carefully, "Rufus, tell him you know about Azazel. See what that does."

Bobby sighs from behind him, sounding frustrated. "He's already asked for a lawyer, boy, you can't -"

But Rufus clearly cares far less about rules than Bobby does because he's saying what Dean told him to and there - right before them, Elmes freezes up.

"Still want that lawyer?" asks Rufus in a gruff voice.

Garth says, "We can drag this thing out, or we can get it over with real nice and quick."

Elmes's eyes flit back and forth between the two; it's an almost laughable contrast between the two agents, so clear in their roles. Rufus, tall and gruff, imposing in all his scowling glory - and Garth, short and skinny, with floppy hair and big eyes. The entire room waits with tension for him to speak, watching him consider.

"I give you a name, I walk, is that how this goes?"

Rufus is already shaking his head before he's finished speaking. "You give us a name, we bag them while you sit your punk ass in jail, you get a reduced sentence. _That's _how this goes."

Garth adds, "Buddy, we just want to help you, but first you gotta help us. It's a helping circle, see?"

"Reduced sentence," says Elmes distastefully.

"Six months." Garth smiles. "Maybe even less than that if you give us more than one."

"They crack so easy these days," complains Dean as, after a slight pause, Elmes finally gives in and requests a pen and paper, writing down something that looks like _Metatron_ from here. Must be some sort of code name. "Where's the fun? Where's the _challenge_? Criminals of this generation are so pathetic."

"Only Dean Winchester could possibly complain about something being _too easy_." Charlie shakes her head woefully. "All right, this is boring now. Someone give me the deets later; I'm off to get some _El Taco Bell_. Castiel, you want some more?"

But he looks just the faintest bit queasy, holding his stomach and wearing an uneasy expression. "I think what I just ate wasn't real food."

Dean grins widely. "Just wait till later. You've only reached stage one, _hombre_. But yeah - I'll take some more. Want some of those cinnamon things, since Cas wouldn't get me a Cinnabon earlier."

"We were _on a case_, Dean."

"Didn't completely stop you, did it?" Dean asks, leaning in to whisper it. Then he turns to jog after Charlie. "Also, one of those Dorito tacos! Don't forget!"

Man, he loves America. Even if its criminals are wimpy assholes.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: **This is really just a story about holidays, don't be fooled. Also, I wrote the entire thing in February and it was super depressing. I had to listen to Christmas songs in February. That happened.

This is totes one of my favorite chapters too, so sorry for the lack of plot-related things happening. I swear we'll get back to that side of the story eventually, I just had to give in to my mushy side that loves Christmas. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

Christmas comes and goes faster than a blink of the eye. There are only a few moments that Dean remembers afterwards with a fond little smile, and if he had to list them, he would probably list them as The Cas Being Surprised, The Epic Blizzard (Not the DQ Kind), The Time Cas Whupped Everyone's Ass at Board Games, Better Late than Never, and the Bro Talk.

Altogether, it's a pretty good deal.

(The Cas Being Surprised)

Back to Bobby's, back to a slightly more condensed version of the same group that had been at Thanksgiving. Meg, Aaron, Kevin, Rufus, and Chuck all find some other place to be - and Rufus scorns them all because his place to be is on a job because, as he says, "Evil don't fucking wait for Santa Claus to finish making his rounds," and everyone ignores him.

It's a quiet affair then, that greets Cas and Dean as they come through the door, greeted only by a very sparsely decorated house and a sleeping Benny on the couch. There is absolutely no one else in sight.

"Festive," Dean comments.

Which is when Charlie bursts out at them looking flushed and panicked and covered from head to toe in tinsel. "_There you are_. Dean - Cas - I'm about to have a heart attack. How the hell are we supposed to celebrate like this? I've been looking in the attic for hours and I finally found it - if we work fast, we can get it up before it's actually Christmas. Which, by the way, good job on getting here so late."

"I love your sarcasm," says Dean. "It really highlights the Christmas spirit."

Cas just looks at him.

"What?"

"Of all the people to say that," is all he says. Then, to Charlie, "What do you want us to do?"

"At least _someone's_ in the Christmas spirit," says Charlie and shoots a threatening glare Dean's way. "Come with me. Both of you."

And then it is several hours of nonstop decorating, of hanging up tinsel and putting up an ancient tree that looks like it might break at any second and hanging wreaths and spraying fake snow everywhere that smells terrible and draping Christmas lights absolutely anywhere they possibly can. Benny wakes up after an hour so and tries to help but mostly gets in the way, and Bobby just yells at them for ruining his house, and Garth - when he gets there - matches Charlie's enthusiasm scarily fast. Ellen does her part by making them all the best hot chocolate to ever exist, which everyone agrees is enough on her behalf.

"Tell me you love this," Charlie orders when it's all finished and Dean is officially exhausted. Exhausted - but pleased. He has to admit, the place looks pretty damn great.

"Are you going to be incredibly smug for the rest of the holiday if I do?"

"Yes, and rightfully so."

He can't say anything, just goes to take her in a hug which surprises her - he feels her tense up against him for a moment before hugging back, just as tightly.

"You're a brat," he tells her as he pulls away, and she grins. "It looks good."

"Told you."

It's hard to be ready for Christmas this year with the case unsolved. The name Elmes had given was Metatron ("What the fuck kind of name is Metatron?" demanded Dean when he heard. "What the fuck is wrong with all these people?") but so far, no one had actually been able to lock down on anything about him. Until they had further information, they were once again stagnant.

It's also the first year without Jo around. He sees it in Ellen too, catches the little moments where she grows quiet and an unfathomable sadness passes over her face. He tells himself he should talk to her about it but can't bring it to himself because Dean's always been a bit of a coward, particularly when it comes to Feelings. Between those two things, there's quite a bit of baggage laying around - but Charlie in particularly seems determined to ignore it.

It's not all bad. Cas falls asleep against his shoulder when they're all watching _It's a Wonderful Life_ and all he wants to do is take his hand or kiss him on the forehead - but instead he shares an exasperated look with Charlie who keeps whispering, "That's so cute," in his ear.

They sleep in the same room that night, in the same bed, and Dean sleeps spooned up against Cas's back, nose buried in his hair.

So some of it is hard, and some of it is not so hard.

Christmas day comes with a fresh shower of snow on the ground, coating everything in a glaring whiteness, glittering in the sunlight. Ellen's prepared the biggest breakfast possible (Dean wonders if she slept at all last night) with eggs, pancakes, sausage, bacon, biscuits and gravy, and grits, which everyone stares at sleepily for a moment before waking up enough to completely devour it.

"Presents," says Garth afterward, beaming. "When are we doing presents?"

"Presents?" says Castiel blankly.

"_Presents_," says Charlie. She has a bow stuck in her hair and the ugliest sweater Dean has ever seen in her life; her grin is magnificently wide. "Immediately. Right now. Bobby? Ellen? Please?"

"Only if you idjits swear to clean up after your own damn selves," growls Bobby, who looks uncomfortably protective of Ellen. It's a quick clean-up with everyone working together (everyone except Ellen, who grumpily watches at everyone's persistence) and then everyone leaves to get their presents and put them under the tree.

Castiel pulls Dean aside frantically.

"Dean," he whispers, clutching his arm. "I didn't get anyone anything."

"Don't worry about it," Dean assures him. "No one cares. They all know you don't get a paycheck."

"But, _Dean_ -"

"Seriously, Cas. You're freaking out over nothing. No one will care." And because they're in secret and it's fucking Christmas and Dean really can't give a shit right now, he leans in and gives Cas a quick hot kiss that leaves them both flushed.

"OI!" shouts Charlie from the living room. "Where are you two?"

"Come on," Dean says, giving him one last smile and then tugging him towards the rest of the group. It's madness in there, because even though no one is the richest person in the world, everyone still managed to get each other a gift (and Castiel just looks like he's drowning in guilt). Garth insists on making everyone open their presents one at a time so that they can all appreciate the full reactions.

Castiel's guilt escapes him when it finally gets to him, and he looks stunned at the pile at his feet. "Wait - these are mine?"

"Of course they're yours, silly," says Charlie. She's smiling in a way Dean can't describe.

"All of them?"

And for the first time, Dean wonders if he's ever actually gotten a present before. He's got a strange feeling in his heart and he inexplicably feels heartbroken all of a sudden. How has this person gone his entire life without receiving a single gift? He wants to get up and wrap his arms around him but instead he forces a grin. "Yes, all of them. Open my last - because it's the best, of course."

He looks shocked when Charlie gives him a book on Greek and Roman mythology; he looks stunned when Bobby gives him a complicated-looking army knife; looks floored at Garth's gift card to Barnes and Noble and Benny's watch and Ellen's thick gray sweater - but when he opens Dean's gift, for a moment there is just nothing. There is just him staring down into the box like he simply has nothing to say or do or feel, like he cannot believe it.

"Well?" prompts Dean. He shifts around uncomfortably. "What do you think?"

"I -" Castiel looks up at him and then presses his lips together. There is such a look of utter _adoration _on his face that Dean has to look away, praying that everyone else can't see it too. When he looks back, Cas is back to staring at Dean's gift. "I love it."

"I was hoping you would."

"What is it?" asks Charlie, stretching her neck up to see over the box - and then she sinks back down, grinning widely. "Oh, he gets those for everyone. Guess you're an official member of the club now, Castiel."

It's perhaps the dorkiest thing Dean does, starting the first year he'd been partners with Jo. Without any idea what to get his loud, raucous female partner, he'd given in to his geekier tendencies and created them matching sweatshirts, with their last names on the back and the FBI sigil on the front, along with the words _Avengers Initiative._ The next year, he'd given one to almost everyone else in the group, except for Meg who didn't deserve one in the slightest. Bobby had gotten his the year after that, as had Ellen, and Dean had been utterly shocked to see Bobby wearing his on occasion. Even Benny has one. It was the sort of stupid thing he did not expecting anyone to like it, and then feeling embarrassed when everyone actually loved it.

Castiel has, of course, seen him and Charlie wear theirs before, and Dean had chosen to explain it at one point - which meant of course he knew the significance.

"Thank you, Dean," says Castiel, in that way that says he clearly is too overwhelmed to think. "It's - I -"

"I know," says Dean. He smiles softly. "You don't have to say anything."

(The Epic Blizzard)

It doesn't stop snowing all day. They don't notice at first, as caught up in eating and gift-giving as they are, but finally Benny looks out the window and then informs them all that there might be a bit of a problem.

Garth and Charlie are delighted, of course.

"They're children," Dean tells Cas. "I know you were under the impression that they were working, functioning adults, but you were wrong. They're actually five-year-olds trapped in adult bodies."

"Are they going to make us go out in it?" asks Castiel in a low voice. He's still hugging Dean's gift. At some point, Charlie'd stuck a wreath made out of tinsel on his hair and he looks frankly a little adorable, though Dean would never admit it out loud.

"I'm worried that you even have to ask that. Do you understand who we're dealing with?"

But despite his complaints and the anxious wrinkle between Castiel's eyebrows, they both put on six layers a piece (Cas, of course, puts on his sweater) and risk going out into the snow with Charlie, Garth, and an equally reluctant Benny at their side. Bobby and Ellen downright refuse to come outside. Dean suspects they're drinking and laughing at them the entire time.

"Snowball fight," Charlie demands immediately.

"Teams?" asks Dean.

"Naturally."

"There's an uneven number," Benny points out.

Dean gives a sharp grin. "That's okay. Me and Cas can take the three of you nerds."

"_Please_," Charlie scoffs.

"No, really. Take your extra person," he says, and without thinking, throws an arm around Cas and tugs him closer. "You'll be crying at the end of this." Is this a thing friends do? God, he hopes so.

"Watch it, Winchester," warns Charlie. "You're gonna be so embarrassed when we kick your ass."

"Bring it, Bradbury."

Ten minutes later, he and Cas huddle behind their spastically made wall of snow as the flurries come down heavily around them. Their breath frosts the air, and Castiel looks he's almost glowing with his bright blue eyes and flushed cheeks. "Quick," says Dean. "Wanna make out?"

"I want to _win_," replies the teenager. "Are there rules?"

"Don't put rocks in the snow."

"Why would anyone do that?"

"Clearly you've never been in a snowball fight at the age of ten before."

"Clearly," Castiel agrees.

And maybe he should feel sad about that, but there is a secret, jealous part of Dean that is incredibly pleased to be the first one to expose Castiel to these things – that same part of him wants to lay claim to every good memory Castiel ever makes, wants to imprint himself into every good feeling Castiel ever has. He tries to squash it down.

"Basically just throw as much snow as humanly possible. Also, we should be making snowballs right now. Hurry."

The thing about having Castiel as a teammate is that he's really ridiculously determined. Once he has an order, he does it, in the most pristine manner possible. And so while Dean goes about making as many lumpy snowballs as he can, Castiel moves at twice the speed and manages to get the most compact, circular balls of snow Dean has ever seen in his life.

When Charlie shouts, "_Ready?_" they both stand back and look at their arsenal.

"Well," says Dean.

"Did I do it right?"

"I think you did it _too _right; are you sure you've never done this before?"

"I said, _ARE YOU READY_?" Charlie screams again.

Dean rolls his eyes at her impatience. "Hell yeah we're ready - ready to _kick your ass!_"

It's chaos. It's ducking and dodging and throwing as many as they can and their gloves are both soaked, fingers freezing - and they're winning for the first half before Garth somehow sneaks around them and stuffs huge amounts of snow in Dean's shirt - and while Dean is incapacitated, Charlie and Benny both swarm Castiel and tackle him down into the snow.

And then it's a free-for-all, with everyone laughing and shouting threats and throwing as much snow as possible. It's only when Ellen comes out and asks if they want hot chocolate that everyone realizes just how damn cold they are and admit a truce.

"_Snooooow_," says Charlie, beaming. "Now all we have to do is build a snowman and make snow angels and snow cream and -"

"What's snow cream?" asks Castiel at her side. He looks at her with a sort of bright-eyed eagerness that tells Dean he would do pretty much anything for her at this point.

"Only the most delicious thing in the whole world," she tells him, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Cas, let me show you the wonders of this world."

"Well, all right."

For the first time, Dean wonders if maybe Charlie is going so insane over Christmas this year is for Cas's benefit. If maybe she's made it her personal vendetta to give him every single experience concerning the winter season that's he missed out. He thinks he loves her a little more because of it, which he didn't know was possible.

Everything is perfectly fine - more than fine - until they wake up on the 26th and realize it hasn't stopped snowing. And all the power's out. And they're basically snowed in.

"If I die in here with you idjits," growls Bobby, looking surlier than usual now that the stove's out.

"Who wants to help me get firewood?" Garth asks earnestly. He's wearing a hat that looks two sizes too big for his head and is perpetually falling forward into his eyes. Cas volunteers and they're both outside for hours, which in Dean's opinion is far too long to just be chopping firewood but no one else seems to agree, too happy that it's not them working. It's a whole lot of eating leftovers and drinking alcohol and nearly everyone falls into a stupor around one o'clock that doesn't leave for hours.

Outside, the snow drifts down continuously, turning everything into a bright beautiful wonderland.

(The Time Cas Whupped Everyone's Ass at Board Games)

"Look what I found!" Charlie calls at eight o'clock that night, having gotten bored and gone to forage in the attic again. She's standing at the edge of the living room with a stack of board games in her arms, looking maliciously excited. "Who wants to play?"

"Which ones do you have?" asks Benny from his corner.

"Uhh, _Scrabble, Clue, Risk, Monopoly_ - something called _Masterpiece_, Bobby, these are ancient -"

"Had to have something to keep Dean and Sam distracted when their dad would drop them off. Mischievous little buggers."

"So which one do we play first? And who's playing?"

"No one," says Dean. He's sprawled out on the couch, working his way through the biggest bag of chex mix to ever exist. "No one's playing with you, Bradbury. Leave us alone. Go play by yourself."

Castiel says, "Dean," and frowns a lot. "I'll play with you, Charlie."

"Me too!" chirps Garth and Benny nods. Even Ellen looks mildly interested.

"You idiots don't know what you're getting yourselves into," protests Dean, and he struggles to sit up, spilling half the bag down his front as he does so. He slumps back down. "She's _crazy_. You haven't played a fucking board game - sorry, Ellen - till you've played it with Charlie, I swear. She _cheats_."

"I do not," says Charlie primly, moving to set down the stack of board games near the coffee table. This room's the only one with a fireplace and therefore the only one with any actual light or heat in the entire house. There are actual kerosene lamps set up in all corners of the room, and who knew Bobby even had those. The effect is rather cozy, if a little cramped.

"She does," Dean says. He picks off a few bits of chex off his chest and chews on them, which might be the saddest thing he's had to do the entire year. "I'm just warning you guys. You're all going to totally regret it."

They start off with _Clue_, the easiest of all the games (no one even knows what _Masterpiece_ is. It looks like it might be from the 1970s. Literally).

Quickly, it turns dirty.

To begin with, no one can decide who gets who and mainly everyone just wants to be Scarlet.

"I have red hair," says Charlie, like that settles it.

"I've never played." Cas smiles hopefully like this is good enough. Dean wants to pet him for his innocence, but he's a little miffed that everyone's still playing despite his warning.

"You seem more like a Mrs. White to me," Garth tells her.

"You're all _boys_, why the hell do you want to be Scarlet?" Charlie demands.

"I'm the oldest," says Ellen and plucks the piece of Charlie's hand. Everyone grumpily concedes to that because Ellen is the only one that can cook (other than Benny, but of course he's too nice to argue with her) which sort of gives her the power. The rest of the pieces go far more quickly and it ends up being: Benny as Professor Plum, Garth as Mr. Green, Charlie as Mrs. Peacock, and Cas gets stuck with Colonel Mustard because, as he said, it's his first time playing.

Dean discovers a peanut in one of the couch cushion and eats it. After further consideration, he decides it wasn't a peanut and certainly wasn't from his spilled chex mix.

"That's literally impossible," says Benny, after Charlie makes a guess and it's correct: Mrs. White, in the Library, with the Wrench. "We've only been playing for seven minutes. How could you have possibly known that?"

She shrugs, smiling. "Intellectual guess."

"_Cheats_," says Dean from the couch.

When she beats everyone a second time, Dean can see they're all starting to understand exactly what he meant and it's with great satisfaction that he watches them all unanimously decide to hate _Clue_ and move on to _Scrabble_.

Which is where things start to get interesting.

Charlie starts off in the clear lead, using every single double word score available - but then Cas lands the word 'lax' on a triple word score and comes away with 36 points and things start progressing quickly. Charlie gets 'futile'; Cas gets 'zero'; Charlie gets 'paint'; Cas gets 'earful'; Charlie gets 'queue'; Cas uses his Z from earlier and puts down all seven letters to form the word 'Zeppelin' which gives him a Bingo and fifty points, plus the points for the actual word. Ellen, Benny, and Garth all collectively quit.

"I didn't even know there was a _thing_ called Bingo in _Scrabble_," Benny says. "Does someone have the rules?"

"It's definitely a thing," Dean says. He's grinning from ear-to-ear and wants to kiss Cas so badly. _Zeppelin_; he won on the word Zeppelin. And Charlie _lost_. This is glorious. This might be the best day of Dean's life; it certainly looks like it might be Castiel's.

"No proper nouns though," points out Garth. "That's also definitely a rule. So, sorry, but -"

"Zeppelin isn't a proper noun though," says Castiel, blinking. "It's a rigid airship or dirigible."

Dean has no idea what a dirigible is, but he's sure as hell glad Cas does.

"The real game here is _Monopoly_," says Charlie. She looks maniacally determined to recover her winning streak. "Those were just the minor leagues."

"Well, I'm done for good," says Ellen, getting to her feet and shaking her head simultaneously. "Too much competition for me. Bobby, you got any more of that whiskey?" She drifts away.

They start setting it up.

"Dean? You sure you don't want to play?" Benny asks.

"Are you really asking me if I want to risk life and limb playing with you idiots? No thanks. I'm good making witty comments the background." He starts picking out only the M&Ms out of the chex mix, effectively ruining it for anyone that next picks it up.

"That's funny, because I haven't heard you say a single thing all night," Charlie comments idly.

He gives her the finger. "I'm rooting for everyone except Charlie, in case anyone was wondering." Cas is the Scottish Terrier; Charlie's the car; Benny's the shoe; Garth's the man on the horse. "Would anyone like to know why exactly I am sitting out when I never sit out on anything?"

Benny rolls the dice and then methodically moves his shoe five places forward. "A railroad. I'll buy it."

"Damn," says Charlie. "I love the railroads."

"Anyone?" Dean asks again, louder this time.

Cas glances over his shoulder at him and gives him a fond little smile. "Go on then."

"It was the Year of Our Lord 2009," begins Dean in a lofty voice and then rolls his eyes as everyone ignores him, watching Garth get Tennessee Avenue. "Who's listening?"

"Me," says Cas patiently, despite his eyes being on the game. It's his turn.

"It was the _Year of Our Lord 2009_," Dean repeats, because damn if that isn't a good opening. "And Charlie and - and Jo and I, and - who else was playing, Charles?"

"Chuck," she says vaguely.

"There was one more."

"It was… Damn, I wanted that property. It was - Meg?"

"Oh, that's right," agrees Dean, nodding along. "It was. And she flipped the table. I remember now. How did I forget?"

"Probably blocked it out," Benny suggests.

"I generally do that to most things Meg does, actually." He rolls on his back and then stares at the game upside down, watching the intense expression of each player. "Anyway, we played this game for - what was it, King Charles the fourth? It had to be at least four hours solid."

"Maybe four and a half."

"They were without a doubt the worst four hours of my entire life."

He can already tell this game is headed in much the same direction and instead of continuing his story (even Cas doesn't look like he's paying much attention) he rolls his eyes and leaves to snag a warm beer from the refrigerator. What a hard life Dean Winchester leads.

Four beers later, he's sleepy and half-drunkenly watching as Benny breaks his calm demeanor and starts shouting at Charlie and Garth looks like he might cry and Cas is just sitting there calmly counting 500 dollar bills. He falls asleep at one point and the next time he looks, Garth is just gone and Benny is selling every house he owns and Charlie looks smug. Fade out again and reopen his eyes - how much later? - and now Benny is gone too and Charlie and Cas both look dangerously exhausted as they play.

"Roll," orders Cas.

"All I need is a six or a ten."

"Roll."

She looks maniacal. "I haven't lost in Monopoly in twelve years, Novak." _When the hell did they start going by last names?_

"Just roll."

"I - fine. Fine." There's a strange glint in her eyes as she cups her hands around the dice and shakes them for a second and then pauses, breathing into her hands. "For luck," she say to Cas's head tilt. Back to shaking. She shakes for almost a minute straight and then - she throws them down. One of them lands straight in the middle of the board - a two, Dean can barely see from here - and the other hits a house and flips off the board onto the ground. There's scrambling and then Castiel holds it high in the air and announces, "A three. Move five places. You owe me two thousand dollars."

"It doesn't count! It landed on the floor, it doesn't count!"

Dean has never seen that particular expression on Castiel's face before - eyebrows scrunched together, mouth twisted into a frown, determined set of his jaw - and hopes he never ever sees it aimed at him. "It does count. It definitely counts."

"Cas, _everyone _knows it doesn't count if it lands on the ground. I get to roll that one again."

"You landed on Boardwalk - it's mine, you owe me two thousand! Start selling hotels."

"You have no fucking clue how to play board games, okay -"

"You're only saying that because I won -"

"You didn't _win,_ the game's not _over_, dipshit -"

"Don't call me that, I won -"

"YOU DIDN'T WIN -"

"_Go rest in your filthy poverty-stricken neighborhood -"_

Struggling, Dean sits up and then rolls off the couch and drunkenly weaves towards them until he has reached the board. Without preamble, he whispers, "I have to tell you guys something," and waits until they both look at him before he sways back and forth for a second and then says, "Okay," and flips the entire board upside down. Pieces go flying. Money is everywhere. Charlie and Cas gape. "When Dean says don't play board games. You listen."

And with that, he stumbles off to flop back on the couch and drool on all the cushions.

(Better Late than Never)

Everyone is groggy the 27th, moving about and wishing for heat and just general electricity. It gets a little better when Ellen somehow makes the best hamburgers in the nation, and then they're all laying around the living room just barely moving. The more snow there is, the less energy there in the house somehow, and Dean cannot find it within himself to actually do something productive. It has occurred to him that there will be tons of case-related shit to deal with when they finally get out here, but for now he finds he doesn't really care.

Cas is gone for another mysterious long bout of time and when he finally comes back out, he's carrying a plain brown sack filled to the brim with some sort of blocky material. There's something about the way he moves that looks flustered and awkward (and adorable, Dean's brain unhelpfully supplies), shuffling forward until he reaches the front of the room. He clears his throat several time to get everyone's attention and then when he has, blushes.

"Um, well. First. I'd just like to say that being here has been the best Christmas of my entire life." He looks down and then up, around at everyone like he's determined to make eye contact with each person there. "The gifts you gave me mean more to me than anything else in the world. I wish I had known to get you something before, so it could have been on time - I felt obligated - no, that's wrong. I _wanted _to get everyone here something special, because you all have made me feel so… welcome."

He swallows hard.

"So I made everyone something. Not much - I'm sorry. But -" he starts digging into the bag, shuffling it to one arm as he reaches out and pulls a slab of wood out wrapped in a plastic bag and hands it to Garth. Then he does the same for Ellen, Bobby, Benny, Charlie, and finally Dean, who accepts his with quiet somber eyes.

Cas moves back to the front of the room and stands with his arms hanging limply at his sides. He is almost painfully earnest in that moment. "Go ahead - everyone can look. Uh."

There's the sound of rustling as everyone pulls the bags off to stare at their own piece of wood, in which there are beautifully carved foreign letters engraved into each one. Dean stares at his own and feels his heart thudding unnaturally loud in his ears.

"Garth helped me find the wood," Cas says. "When we were getting wood for the fireplace. I -" he looks to Bobby now. "I hope that's okay."

"Sure, kid," says Bobby gruffly.

"What's it say, Cas?" asks Ellen. She's looking at her own piece of wood like it's precious metal.

He shifts from foot to foot. "Yours say - yours says 'Mother,' in Enochian. They're all in Enochian. Bobby's says 'Protector.' Garth's says 'Shield.' Charlie's says 'Warrior.' Benny's says 'Comforter.' And, um," his eyes meet Dean's and Dean honestly can't breathe for a second. "Yours - Dean's means 'Strength.'"

It's silent for a moment.

"I hope they're okay. I didn't have enough time, or I would have done something more -"

Ellen gets up from her chair and pulls him into a tight hug. And then Charlie comes up and hugs him, and then Garth and Benny, one after another - even Bobby gruffly gives him a one-armed hug and huge clap on the back before pulling away. Then it's just Dean, staring at him with an unreadable expression. He can't hug him. He can't do it here, in front of all these people, because he knows if he does, he'll break down and kiss him as well.

"Thanks, Cas," he says hoarsely instead.

Later, Cas tells him that he lied about what it meant.

"It really does have the word strength in it," he confesses. "But the full meaning of the Enochian here is 'my strength.' Because… you are. My strength, that is."

And it's probably a good thing they're alone when Castiel tells him that because they do several things right after that would be a bit awkward in public.

(The Bro Talk)

With the power likely to come back on the next day - finally - Dean and Charlie make it their mission in life to get spectacularly smashed, to 'celebrate.' It's late when they start - one in the morning - but they both do their best to make up for lost time, hidden away in one of the back rooms away from everyone else. Also away from the warmth, unfortunately, which means they're both bundled up in two coats each, along with scarves, hats, and gloves.

"I feel silly," slurs Dean after his sixth shot of vodka. They should probably slow down. Switch to wine. Luckily, Bobby's house is better stocked than an ABC store on a Sunday. "Do I look silly?"

"Look… fine to me," giggles Charlie. She's got that glazed look in her eyes that always comes after the fourth shot or so, and her laugh is contagious. They both just snicker to each other for a moment before she slides down slightly and leans her head on his shoulder. "Dean," she says.

"What?"

"Has this - has this been the best week of your life?"

"The best week of my _entire life_?" He scrunches up his nose to think as she nods jerkily against his shoulder. "Ah. Uh. Yes. It has. Most likely."

"Most likely?" She laughs drunkenly and then twists her head to peer up at him. "Dean."

"Yessum?"

"You ever been in _looove_?"

He stills and then laughs. "Oh, hell, are we already on the deep drunk questions part of the night, Bradbury? That was fast."

She grins and presses her face into his coat for a moment before rolling up to grab the bottle of wine they have set out. "Help me open this."

They both struggle for a moment to get it open and then the cork finally comes out and Charlie drinks long before handing it off to Dean with a little hiccup. He takes his own long draught and then laughs inexplicably. She looks to him with raised eyebrows.

"Fruity," he says. "Who knew Bobby would own this?"

"Let's tease him about it merci - mercisslily," she says and flops back down on the pile of blankets they have underneath them. For reasons neither can quite explain, they're not using any of the blankets for warmth but just as cushion while they sprawl out next to each other.

Dean thinks it's because the cold reminds him he's alive. Each breath he takes frosts the air around him in a white cloud - what more proof could there be?

"I've been in love," he says after a moment. Charlie takes another sip from the bottle and offers it up but he shakes his head. "Have you?"

"You know how I'm dating someone?"

"Ah yes. The mysterious blonde."

"Nice try, Sherlock; she's brunette."

"Close enough," he says and takes the wine from her.

"Well. I asked her if she wanted to maybe come here for Christmas. She said no."

"Ouch," he says. A bit of wine dribbles down his chin but he makes no move to wipe it away. "But how long have you two been dating again? Only a couple of months, right? So maybe spending Christmas together was too fast for her."

Charlie reaches out for the bottle and snuggles further into his side. "Probably. It's still shit, though."

"What's her name?"

"Not telling."

"_Charlene_."

"You damn well know that's not my name."

"Maybe if you tell me hers I'll stop calling you that."

She's too busy drinking more wine to answer him. Time passes so hazily when drunk - like little loops and swirls that never seem to quite connect to each other, so one moment will go by quick and lightning fast and others will drag on for a millenium. This is the second sort, Dean decides.

"What about loving someone that may be wrong?" he finally asks. "What about that?"

"Wrong how?"

"Like. Society wrong."

"Society is shit," she tells him, hugging the wine bottle. "Society is completely fucked in the head. Don't listen to it."

"But what if it's not? I mean - it's not complete bullshit, is it? You're not like, supposed to fuck dogs or babies or anything. So if not all limitations are bad…" He forgets where he was headed with this.

"Is it consensual?"

He thinks about how he's the first person to ever show Cas any sort of affection at all. Thinks about how he's been screwed over his entire life by people who have total power over him. Thinks about handing Cas the pills and also agreeing to have sex with him when he was an emotional wreck and says, "Uhhh."

"_Dean_."

"I don't know, okay?" he says, and lets out a drunk little wail. "It's really complicated. He says he's into it, but what if he's really not?"

"Well…"

"I mean, what if I pressured him into it or something? What then?"

"Well _did _you?"

"Charlie, would you ever not be my friend?" he asks instead.

"I mean…"

He makes an indignant little noise and she wiggles against him, turning her head to press her lips to his cheek. "No, Dean. I would never not be your friend."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what."

He considers telling her then, that he's might be in love with Cas. Or at least in very-deep-like with Cas. Opens his mouth, squints his eyes. Decides at the last second not to and instead goes for the bottle. It's a battle, for a second, and then she relinquishes and he takes a healthy gulp.

"It's just, I don't think I've ever had that many _good_ relationships," he says at last. "So it's hard to judge."

"Dean, just promise me you're not doing anything really, really stupid." It's a point to Charlie's character that she doesn't say 'illegal' in that sentence.

"Juss' wanna make him happy," he mumbles and turns towards her. Everything is muzzy. "I promise."

"I think anyone would be lucky to have you," she tells him. He stares at her for a moment in the darkness and then leans forward very slowly and presses his lips to the tip of her nose before pulling away again. They laugh together softly then there's silence as they steadily drink through the second half of the bottle, one after another. It's cold but also not, and Charlie seems to be fading away into sleep. He can feel exhaustion tugging at his own consciousness, murmuring sweet nothings.

"Gilda," she says, just as he's about to lose all thought process.

"Mm?" he manages.

"S'name is Gilda."

"Pretty."

"She is."

And sleep claims them both.

And Christmas is gone once again, melting with the snow, see you next year. There are a lot of things Dean will not remember in the years to come, but these five things stick like peanut butter to the roof his mind, a sticky reminder of what once was.

* * *

**A/N: **Reviews are compensation for surviving finals week.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N:** Open Google Translate, biatch.

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

"Well," says Dean, putting his hands on his hips as he stares at the blown out tire. "Here's your chance."

"My chance to what?" Castiel asks blankly.

Dean lifts a hand, waves it around, gestures to the car. "You know. Learn how to do stuff you've never had a chance to do before. Gain some life experience. _Pro bono._"

"What?" he asks and then looks around as though Dean might possibly be talking to someone other than him. He looks back at Dean. Back to the car and the blown out tire. "You want me to - what, fix a tire? Do you even know what pro bono means?"

"It's something every man needs to know," says Dean airily and then hands Castiel the keys. "Go on then."

Castiel says, "Dean."

"Maybe it's time for me to take a nap. Listen to some tunes…"

"Dean, I have no idea how to do this."

Dean sighs loudly, although what else could he have possibly expected? If he were being perfectly honest with himself, maybe he liked that a little, Castiel being forced to ask him for help. "All right, well, first of all, you're going to have to open the trunk because that's where I keep the spare tire and the jack."

"What's a jack?" says Castiel, the blank look returning.

"Dear God, what did they teach you at that place?" demands Dean, swiping the keys back from Cas's limp hand and moving to unlock the trunk.

"Mainly how to disarm criminals and detect poisons," says Castiel, following behind. "But I also know four different languages other than English. Plus Enochian obviously."

"Oh yeah? Say something in one of them."

"C'est ainsi que vous dites quelque chose en français."

"I hope you just told me my ass looks good in these jeans," says Dean, right as he bends over to pull the tire out of the trunk.

"Something like that," says Castiel, and then, after a moment, "Ton cul me donne envie de faire des choses sales dans le lit."

"All right, all right, stop showing off," says Dean, reaching back down into the depths of the trunk and pulling out a scruffy, used jack and beat up lug wrench. He thumps the jack against his leg once or twice and then moves around for a moment, setting both the tire, lug wrench, and jack off to the side before glancing at Castiel. "I need two good size rocks," he tells him. "Pronto."

"Après je résoudre ce problème, allez-vous me baiser?" says Castiel, blinking at him innocently.

Dean points at him. "One more word out of you in damn French and I'm not touching you for a month."

Slowly a grin tugs at Castiel's mouth, a mischievous light gleaming in his eyes as he licks his lips and then says, "Fein, nicht mehr Französisch."

"I've never hit a child," begins Dean. "But I'm about to."

Castiel snickers and then raises his hands in a defensive position. "You asked me to demonstrate, so I did. Okay - I'll stop my _intellectual pursuits _to go get you a rock, sir."

"_Two _rocks!" Dean shouts at his back as he lopes off and then rolls his eyes and turns back to the task at hand. "Goddamn teenagers today."

Except that's exactly it. This so-called 'teenager' who knows four languages and how to take down a man with one hand - Dean knows, Dean's seen the proof, Dean's felt the hard cold facts against his own neck with his face pressed into the floor - has spent far too long being an adult and far too little being an actual teenager. There are so many things he hasn't done, might never do, and here Dean is making fun of him for what he actually can do and it's a rotten feeling, joke or not.

It's a minute or two before Castiel returns, holding out two large rocks questioningly and tilting his head when Dean doesn't make a comment but merely smiles tightly and takes them, setting them on either side of the front, stable tire to keep the car from rolling.

"Dean?" says Castiel when the silence continues on.

"My dad's the one that taught me to do this," he says quietly, gesturing Cas over to watch as he puts the jack in place and begins lifting the back side of the Impala up. "Taught me everything I know about cars, actually. Which is quite a lot. It helped that I worked as a mechanic to put myself through college."

Castiel is silent.

"Now, normally at this point, you'd get out your owner's manual to make sure that the jack's in the right place and won't damage the car," explains Dean, sitting back on his heels and looking up at Cas. "But I've done this enough on the Impala to know that nothing'll go wrong." He pats the black car reassuringly, lovingly. Shifting forward on his heels, he takes the hubcap off easily and then looks back up. "Want to take the lug nuts off?"

"Sure," says Castiel and then settles down on his knees next to Dean and stares at the wheel for a long time.

"The lug wrench," Dean finally prompts.

"Oh. Right." There's a bit of fumbling and then it's in the teenager's hands and he's back to staring at the wheel.

"Do you have any idea at all what lug nuts are?" Dean asks at last.

"Not particularly." Sheepish.

"Do you at least know how to say lug nuts in French?"

Cas hesitates.

"See these right here? Take the wrench - like this - and - yeah, now do that counterclockwise to all of them." Dean's quiet, watching him work. "There was a period where. I almost liked cars more than I liked anything else. They felt simple to me, like pieces of a puzzle that I knew exactly how to work out. I think maybe if my life had turned out differently, if Mom hadn't died and Dad hadn't gotten so obsessed - I think I might have stayed a mechanic. I know it sounds stupid but." He shrugs awkwardly.

"I don't think it sounds stupid," says Castiel once he's finished, turning to look at Dean. "It's a skill you have that you should be proud of. Not everyone can figure this out."

"Not everyone can learn five languages by the time they're seventeen, either."

Castiel says quietly, "With the right incentive, you can do anything. That does not equate to natural talent, however, or a passion for something."

It feels like they're dancing around something dark here and Dean reverts his attention back to the car, stroking the side of it soothingly before jacking the car up higher and gesturing to Castiel. "Go on then. Pull the tire off. Easy now. Good, yeah that's good. All right, now take the new one and -" Dean sits back in admiration as Castiel works steadily, his brow creased in concentration as though his very life depends on him getting this right for Dean.

"My dad used to, I don't know. I guess he wanted to make sure I was prepared for life and whatnot. So sometimes he would do things like tell me to go get some groceries and sabotage the back wheel and have me deal with the blowout. Used to freak me the hell out because I never knew when he'd be wanting to test me so I always had to be on my guard, just in case."

The wheel is on; Castiel sits back and admires his work for a moment and then seems to speak directly to the car. "I can relate to that. Sometimes they would put us in air tight tunnels and slowly flood it with smoke while we had to get out. Or sometimes they would drop us down in the middle of the desert with no food or water and tell us to find our way back in less than three days. It taught me how to think on my feet. React instinctively. Move quickly." His voice grows quieter. "But they never did teach us how to fix a flat tire." Now he looks sideways, finally. "Thank you, Dean."

Dean can't swallow around the lump in his throat. He can't move, can't think. A kid, dropped off in the fucking desert. How does that possibly compare to Dean being dropped off five blocks from his house and told to get back in the quickest route possible? "You're not done," he says gruffly, instead of what he really wants. "Gotta put the lug nuts back in place."

"Yes," says Castiel, picking up the lug wrench again. "Of course."

There are a lot of things Dean doesn't say and Dean doesn't do.

There are a lot of things he regrets because of this, because of how much he holds himself back at times where he might otherwise come off as awkward or uncomfortable.

He takes a deep breath. "Cas?"

"Almost done," says Castiel, the muscles in his forearms tensing and bunching up as he twists one lug nut, then another.

"Cas," says Dean again, reaching out an arm and tugging Cas towards him. The teenager stops, making a small frustrated noise, and then pauses at Dean's expression. He doesn't know what he looks like in that second, but he feels desolate all of a sudden - feels lost.

"What is it, Dean?"

"Come here," says Dean, and takes him into his arms. It's an awkward hug, both of them sitting down, and Castiel doesn't relax at first - tenses up, rather, at the unexpected contact as though he doesn't know what to do with it. It occurs to Dean that maybe he would know what to do with a kiss and that bothers him for some reason - because why can Cas react so easily to sexual contact but not something like this, something soft and gentle?

"What is it, Dean?" Cas asks again, his face pressed into Dean's shoulder. He shifts slightly, his thighs moving so that one's on either sides of Dean, his scent closer.

"Just," Dean can't get it out. "Just know that you're important, to me. And not for this," he pulls away, touching his hand to Castiel's face, his furrowed brows and chapped lips. "Not for work or - or the other thing. But just because of who you are."

Everyone needs to hear it sometime. Even if makes him feel like some lovestruck, pathetic bastard, there comes a point where it just needs to be said. Someone has to come right out and be the asshole and say what they're feeling, thinking.

Castiel blinks at him for a long moment and doesn't seem to know what to say, until, "You are. The most important person of my entire life. There will never be anyone greater than you."

"Never say never," says Dean weakly. He doesn't know why he says it. "But - hey, great - great job. Good job. I'm proud of you." God, he's turning into such a little bitch.

The gleam in Castiel's eyes is worth it, however. He glances at the tire and then over at Dean, his lips twitching up in something more than Dean can handle. It is a look that cannot be replaced by anything else, ever. "Tu est très beau," he says, voice deeper than usual.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you're beautiful."

"Did you seriously just tell me I'm beautiful in _French_?"

The smile on Castiel's face grows. "The most beautiful man deserves to be told it in the most beautiful language."

"How do you say 'you're being a sap' in French, then?"

"I refuse to tell you."

"I'll just go look it up."

Cas stands up, delicately dusting off his pants, and gives Dean a look that clearly tells him he just ruined whatever moment they were having together. "I can tell you you're an idiot in five different languages. Do you really want to challenge me here?"

"Hell, I don't even _need _a language for that," says Dean, and flips him the bird.

The moment may be gone, but the feeling of Castiel's expression carries him onward for a very long time indeed.

* * *

It's like slow motion, when it happens.

They're in the grocery store, of all places, because Dean's had a craving for chopped pineapples which no gas station is going to carry, and they're standing in line. He's got cash in hand, chopped pineapples on the conveyer belt, when he spots the line of cigarette boxes behind the customer service desk and turns to Castiel with a grin.

"You ever smoked a cigarette?" he asks.

"Dean," says Castiel patiently, as if he's talking to a child. "Not only are cigarettes highly addictive, but they're also incredibly detrimental to one's health, not including the fact that it – is – illegal."

"Only by one year. Relax, I'm not gonna teach you how to chain smoke or anything," he says, glancing back towards the customer service desk. "Just one, just so you know how. Don't be a wuss about it. I'll be right back," he adds to the check-out counter girl who merely looks bored and not the least interested that Dean is catering to minors.

He looks around at the desk, once he's reached it, and whistles for a clerk - and then leans back against the counter and looks back at where Castiel is watching him stonily. He grins and tips him a two finger salute and then glances sideways at a clean-cut looking man waiting next to him. "Recommend any cigarettes?"

"Marlboros are good," he says thoughtfully, and reaches up to scratch his jaw. Dean's eyes go to his wrist - and then he pushes himself off the counter, eyes widening as he stares at the Enochian tattoo shining back at him from eye-level. His eyes flicker to the man's face and he knows he looks stunned - and the man seems to realize what's happened a second after Dean has, his arm jerking down and his other hand moving to cover his wrist.

Then he grins, razor sharp. "Winchester."

"Wait," says Dean stupidly, still trying to catch up - and then everything speeds up, racing around him, and the guy takes off running, leaving Dean to scramble after him. "Stop!" he shouts, and pushes through two people as the man aims for the door. "FBI, _stop or I'll shoot!_"

He curses loudly as the doors comes to a close between them as slams his palm on them, hearing Castiel's confused voice calling behind him and then the doors are opened again and he's running at a breakneck speed, fumbling for his gun as he catches sight of the man sprinting through the parking lot.

"Shit," he spits out, and takes off again, legs pumping underneath him as he runs after him. He can just see a glimpse of the guy weaving through the cars and he runs harder, his heart thudding in his ears as he tries to think of a way to catch him. He's running alongside him now, one row of cars over, and then abruptly he cuts through two cars and there he is - and Dean tackles him to the pavement, a harsh grunt leaving his mouth as their bodies collide.

"What do you know?" he manages to growl out, but then they're rolling - and fists are flying, one of them catching Dean in his jaw and sending his head snapping back to the pavement. He gasps, his grip loosening on the man's jacket, and then another hard punch lands in his abdomen as he curls in on himself. "_God damn_ -"

Because it's just the chance needed for the man to scramble to his feet, wheezing, and stumble off, clutching his side which Dean had impacted from the right. Dean lays there for half a second, pressing his face into the rough pavement, and then rolls and pushes him to his feet, careening to the side as his head throbs and then closing his eyes and opening them again, focusing.

"_Go_, you son of a bitch," he growls, and takes off.

Cars blur beside him and the pavement is a ghost behind him but the man's had a head start and Dean can't figure out where the hell he's headed. They're leaving the grocery store parking lot behind now and the man sprints out into traffic, not seeming to care that cars are zooming past and honking at him loudly. Dean skids to a stop, watching carefully for his chance, and then darts out, holding his hand up to stave off traffic as he runs.

He can see where they're headed now - but it doesn't make any sense, and he shouts, "_Stop_," again but it's useless, of course just like his running is, just like everything's he ever done, and the man is at the gas station now ahead of him, too far ahead, and he's reaching a white minivan and he's pushing a woman out of the way and there's a fucking child being dragged with her and he's yanking the gas pump out of her car and looking back at Dean and he's _grinning_, a maniac sort of grin that Dean can see even from this distance - and he can hear someone shouting his name from behind, probably Castiel - and he's still running towards the gas station - fruitless, pointless, all of it - "_RUN,_" Dean screams, throwing his hands up towards the people gathered at the gas station, and of course no one pays attention. Because no one ever pays attention, when it counts, and Dean can never run fast enough, when it matters.

The smell of gasoline is pungent, even from a distance, as it sprays all over the floor and man. He tilts his head back, still smiling, and looks almost peaceful as he showers himself and everything around him in the foul liquid. And then his eyes snap open and he looks at Dean once more and says something Dean cannot hear - and then he pulls a lighter out of his pocket and clicks it on, without hesitation, and drops it to his feet.

It seems to hover in mid-air as it falls, achingly slow and twisting in on itself, its silver gleam catching the sun and flashing tauntingly in Dean's direction.

The explosion is magnificent and instantaneous. Light fractures up first around the nameless man, blooming from the bottom up around him in an enormous fireball that billows up in an almost graceful arc and catches onto the woman who owns the minivan and oh, God, her _fucking kid is with her _- and then it catches onto the gasoline on the ground and roars to life as screams erupt into the air.

Dean doesn't stop, doesn't slow.

Straight into the middle of the gas station he runs, moving with nothing but hard determination in every line of his body as he whirls, searching, scanning, lips pressed down together in a flat line - _there_. He rips the fire extinguisher down from its position and jerks the pin out of place and aims first for the woman - eyes narrowing as he holds the nozzle just so and then white foam streams out the tip, covering her from head to toe and then he's aiming it at the screaming kid who is crying and choking and screaming and screaming.

"Call an ambulance!" he orders a nearby sobbing woman and then turns next to the man who has dropped into unconsciousness and is still writhing underneath the burning flames.

For a moment, he has a thought and the thought is a dark whisper that stains everything it touches with blackened hands and the thought is: _Let him burn._

And then his expression hardens and he presses down the lever, sweeping the extinguisher back and forth as the flames slowly fall back. Then there's a wailing noise - and there it is, the golden three, the ambulance, the firetruck, and the police officer all arriving after the damage has been done.

The unknown stranger lays there before Dean, blackened and burnt and somehow still breathing.

Dean imagines killing him slowly, imagines dowsing him in flames again and saving him and then lighting him up again and saving him and making it last and he wants to vomit.

A hand touches his elbow, and he immediately rounds on the person, forgetting his gun and pointing it directly at their forehead - and then feeling his stomach drop out from underneath him as he stares into painfully bright eyes. "They won't stop screaming," he says.

"Dean," says Castiel quietly, and pulls at him, tugging him back away from the gathering crowd of people. "Dean, come on."

"Screaming," repeats Dean helplessly, and follows after him. He doesn't know where he's being led, only know that's there's a hand tucked in his, squeezing hard. It is the only thing holding him down, he knows.

"You're shaking," says Castiel.

Dean says, "Oh," but doesn't know what to do about it. He sucks in one breath and then another and then can't stop until he's gasping for air and Castiel comes to a stop, reaching his steady hands up to hold Dean's face.

"Breathe," Castiel says.

"I can't," he chokes out. "Still screaming?"

"I can't hear them," says Castiel, and holds on tighter, too tightly, Dean's going to have bruises the shapes of fingertips in his temples. "Watch me. Breathe."

"I - I, I," he can't stop stuttering and he reaches up, wrapping his hands around Castiel's wrists and feeling his pulse flutter against Dean's skin. "Didn't save them."

"You did," says Castiel firmly. How can he be so calm right now? How does it not affect him? "They're safe, you saved them. Dean, _focus on my breathing_."

Dean gasps.

"In," says Castiel.

Dean breathes in.

"Out."

Shaky breath out.

"I'm not supposed to fall apart," he whispers after three more heart-wrenching breaths. He still hears the screams and he's not sure if it's from Jo or the mother or the child or Alastair with Dean's knife carving his chest open. He shudders, a full-body shake that makes him lean into Castiel, a low groan escaping his lips. "Another one gone, another one I fucking _didn't save_."

"You don't know that, Dean," says Castiel sharply.

"There was a _kid_," says Dean.

Castiel is silent and Dean, now halfway under control, pulls away, feeling emptier as soon as he loses Castiel's touch. Castiel, for his part, simply drops his arms to his side and stands there watching Dean.

"He was connected to the drug ring," Dean says after a moment. "He had the tattoo."

"Which one?" asks Castiel. "Burn, falter, or God's glory?"

"Neither," says Dean shortly. "It was something different from either. I can't fucking figure out what it means, why it keeps cropping up in different ways."

"He might survive. Then we'll be able to take him in and extract whatever intel we need."

"That's the problem." A sharp laugh that cuts to the bone. "I can't tell if I want the bastard to die a painful death or live to spill the secrets and then let the rest of the drug ring get their filthy fucking hands on him."

Castiel smiles and it is one of the most dangerous expressions Dean's ever seen on his face, the look of a practiced killer on a teenage face, of years of hardness and struggles and things Dean cannot dream of mixed in with delicate cheekbones and soft eyelashes. "Why not both?"

"I'm sure we can arrange something," says Dean darkly. He looks away, back to the gas station and feels something twist deep inside. "Fuck, Cas, I just don't get it. Why would he set himself on fire? Who would willingly do something like that to himself? Why not just let himself be arrested?"

When he looks back, the sharp look is gone and Castiel looks lost, subdued. "I don't know, Dean."

"It's just - the closer we get to this case, the less I fucking understand about it," says Dean, utterly frustrated. "Two goddamn steps forward, five back - and it takes a mother and child along with it."

Castiel looks away, unable to offer anything else.

The next day, Dick Roman's secretary calls and asks them to come in.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

"Relax," says Dean despite the fact that he's as tense as a strung bow on the chair beside Castiel. "He probably just wants to. See how you're doing. Make sure everything's going okay. Which it is, and I'll tell him it is."

"That's exactly what he wants," says Castiel, expressionless. The only sign that there is anything wrong with him is the way his hands dig into the armrests, his fingers like claws against the dark leather. "You don't understand who you're dealing with, Agent Winchester."

"Dean," he corrects gently, but Castiel jerks his head sharply.

"Agent Winchester," he repeats.

Dean sighs. "It's probably nothing," he says again.

An uneasy silence hangs between them and his mind automatically reverts back to the previous day - to the screams and flames, to the heat fanning his face - and then to the Enochian Castiel had translated for him last night.

"'And'?" he had asked, bewildered. "That's what it means?"

"'And'," Castiel confirms. "If that's really what you saw -"

"It is."

"Then that's what that lettering means. And."

"And," Dean repeats a third time. "Like… ongoing, maybe? Continuous? There's something coming after him?"

"It doesn't make any sense," says Castiel, and they had both sat there for a long while in subdued silence.

"So we have my name," Dean had finally said. "If that even really counts, since it wasn't a tattoo. We have burn. Falter. God's glory. And 'and'."

"We're missing something vital," said Castiel in a tight voice, and Dean couldn't help but agree.

He'd woken up screaming again last night, and Dean had held him again, without saying a single word about it.

Afterwards, he'd gently made the suggestion that maybe Cas should take the pills again, just to be safe. It was going to screw up all the progress he'd made, Dean knew, but if the lab workers took a sample of his blood and didn't see traces of the drug in his veins, he'd most likely get in trouble and there'd be nothing Dean could do to stop them from punishing him.

Now, he wishes he could hold Castiel again - wishes he could at least slide his hand down Castiel's forearm and intertwine their fingers together. Right before they'd left the hotel, he'd taken Castiel's face in his hands and leaned forward, kissing him slowly and softly, a promise that he would get through whatever Dick wanted from him today. Castiel had blinked when Dean'd pulled away and smiled, looking heartened for it.

That smile is long gone now.

"It'll be okay," says Dean once more, pointlessly.

"Agent Winchester," says Castiel, a quiet reprimand. "Please."

"Right. You're right. I'm sorry. I'll stop." The silence stretches onward around them. Out of all the shit they're already having to deal with - now they have to sit around and wait for some complete shithead to come and check up on them as well? It grates on Dean's already frayed nerves.

Finally, the secretary lifts her head and smiles at them, cool and fake. "Mr. Roman will see you now. Thank you for waiting."

Wordlessly, they both rise to their feet and begin walking, Castiel subtly dropping behind Dean after a few feet to show clear leadership. It bothers Dean in a way he can't explain. They're partners - and even if some asshat director believes that Cas is somehow less of a person, that will never change the fact that they're well and truly equals. Dean has learned more respect for this teenager than he has for anyone in a very long time.

Unfortunately, his respect for Cas doesn't change much. Castiel still lets him walk first; still calls him Agent Winchester; still reverently lets him into the office before him. Something curdles deep in Dean's stomach as Dick Roman turns around and gives him a wide smile, his eyes not even bothering to flicker in Castiel's direction, as though he's not there.

"Agent Winchester," he greets in a warm voice. "Good of you to join us." He waits for Dean to reply and then when Dean only nods stiffly, goes on. "It's been more than four months; I thought it would be the proper time for a little check-up on Castiel, to see how working in the field has influenced his capabilities."

"He's better than before," says Dean firmly. And then, because he's an asshole and he simply cannot help himself, "So this has nothing to do with yesterday's incident?"

Dick tilts his head slightly, a small smile playing at his lips. "Yesterday's incident - bad publicity aside - was an isolated one, I'm sure. It will not happen again."

"No," Dean says. "It won't."

"That was not a question, Agent," says Dick and then finally looks behind him to where Castiel is standing in military position. "Lab A, if you would, Castiel."

Castiel says, "Yes, sir," and then turns and leaves without glancing at Dean - the door clicks quietly shut behind him. Dean stares at it and then turns and looks back at Dick. "What sort of tests are they going to run on him?"

"Just the usual, Agent, no need to worry. You can come back in a few hours, if you'd like, or I can have my secretary call you when he's finished -"

"That's okay," says Dean through gritted teeth. "I'll stay here, thanks. What is 'the usual'?"

Dick's eyes grow hard and his smile turns frosty. "They look for a change in height, weight, blood pressure, muscle amount. Then they'll put him through a few physical courses, to see if his reaction time is the same."

His vagueness is just adding to Dean's fury. "Like. _What_."

He waves a hand around airily. "Fighting with other trainees. I think they have him scheduled for a temporary sense removal course."

Dean freezes. "Sense removal? What the hell does that mean? Are you going to -"

"Just as it might suggest; we'll remove one of his senses in order to see how he adjusts to the loss."

He can't move, can't think, definitely can't open his mouth, he is so outraged. They're going to fucking - blind or - or deafen him or whatever else new torture they might come up with on the spot. For some goddamn test that isn't even _necessary_. He wants to take Dick Roman and throw him out the window - wants to break him into pieces, and now he's so fucking thankful that Charlie is investigating this shithole of a place because it's evil. He's known it's evil, seen what's been done to Castiel, but now, with Dick right in front of him - he feels the rage, burning a hole through his stomach. The problem is the drug dealers, but the problem is also the man in this room, owning this whole organization.

Dean wants to slice him open. Watch him bleed out slowly for all the things he's done to Castiel. He wants to make him scream for every time Castiel's scream and cry for every time Castiel's cried, wants to make him beg and piss himself, because no one is allowed to do that to a _child_ and get away with it.

Dick clearly catches his expression because something shifts in his own and he moves closer, standing far too close to Dean for his comfort, eyes cold. "Is something the matter, Agent Winchester?"

Dean can't speak.

"Because if something is…" He waits, as if giving Dean the chance to speak up. They both know who holds the power here, however. "I can easily remove subject Novak from your case if he's causing any problems. Any problems whatsoever. I'd be more than happy to."

"No problem," says Dean through frozen lips. "None that you need to worry about, Director."

A hard cutting smile crosses his lips. "So I'll have my secretary ring you when it's over then?"

And Dean nods, because there's nothing left for him to do but agree. For now.

* * *

The woman who enters the room next is wearing a gray pantsuit with a labcoat over it and her hair pulled back in a low bun. Glancing down, she examines the clipboard in her hand for a second and then glances up at him and examines him with the same critical gaze. "Temp optical outage?" she says.

The words mean nothing to him. Cas has been poked and prodded and had blood drawn four different times already - not to mention rigorous exercise for a straight hour. Now he's just enjoying the feeling of sitting down and doing absolutely nothing, although it looks as though that's about to change momentarily. "What?" he asks when it looks as though she's waiting for a response.

"Are you subject CN720397?" she says.

"Yes."

"I'm Dr. Naomi Morgan," she says, looking back down at her clipboard. "It says here you're to perform a temporary optical outage course."

"All right." He can't even be bothered to care anymore; he just wants to go home, to be with Dean, to maybe let Dean stroke his hair for a while and then kiss him a lot. If he has to put up with whatever it is they have planned for him, then so be it. He has dealt with it his entire life, he can deal with it a little more. It certainly doesn't help things that Dean'd suggested he take the pills last night and this morning. He feels weighted down, like there's a wall between him and his emotions. How did he exist for so long on this drug? It's gives the world a stilted, bland view for him. His purpose is to fight and obey orders and that's it.

She frowns at him. "You do understand what this means?"

Castiel sighs. If he says no, he'll be subjected to a long-winding and painful discussion on what exactly it is he's going to go through - and then he'll actually go through it. This is the last thing on the schedule for him, hopefully, which means that the quicker he gets through, the quicker he can go back to pretending the OBIT doesn't exist. "Yes."

"Hmm," Naomi says, and flips through a couple pages before examining him over once more. "No objections to raise?"

Castiel stares at her flatly. "No."

"I see. I will prepare the serum; please do not move from this spot." And then she's gone and Castiel's left wondering what the hell kind of serum she's getting and maybe he should have asked her what an optical outage is but oh well, too late now.

Overall, it's all been much better than he expected. He can't explain the icy cold fear that struck him when he'd heard that they wanted him to come back in - imagining all the worst things they could possibly do to him, all the options ending with him being taken away from this case - but so far it's all been pretty routine stuff. Maybe they really just do want to see how the field is affecting him. Maybe that's all it is.

"All right, it's going to be disarming at first," says Naomi, re-entering and holding a long, silver syringe, fill to the brim with a clear liquid. She pauses, flicking it once or twice, and then gestures for him to hold out his arm, which he does so resignedly. "Three attackers, time limit to reach the button at the end. You know the drill." The needle sinks into his forearm and he grits his teeth, showing no other visible signs of discomfort.

"How long of a time limit is it?"

"Fifteen minutes."

Castiel blinks, pulling his arm away and flexing. "That long?"

She gives him an unreadable look and then holds her hand out. When he stares at it, she moves her fingers, jerking her head. "It'll take effect immediately, come on. I have to lead you to the course."

"I can walk myself," he says, and slides off the medical bed, ignoring her extended arm and waiting for her to lead to the room.

Making an impatient noise, Naomi brushes past him and they leave the room and go down the hall - a right, another right, and now Castiel's seeing things - black fluttering things at the edges of his vision. He stumbles, knocking roughly into the corner of the wall as they turn again and she reaches back, steadying him. "Still want to walk by yourself?" Her voice is clipped.

"What's -" his breath is coming too quickly. "What's happening to me?" Automatically, he rubs his eyes and when nothing happens - when things only get _darker _- he does it again, harder.

"Temporary optical outage," says Naomi, and, taking his arm, pulls him forward. After a moment, she adds with some sympathy, "Short term blindness."

Everything within Castiel lurches and then turns to lead, his feet clumsy as he moves after her, and now his vision is steadily declining, dimming until all he can see are faint shadows and vague outlines. "How - how long -" He can barely get it out. He should have asked. Should have asked. He's such an _idiot_. No wonder they're giving him fifteen minutes - fifteen minutes to blindly fight three trained fighters and then stumble around trying to find a button before some unnameable consequence happens that he can't even begin to imagine.

Deep breaths. One. Two. Count down from ten in German. _Zehn, neun, acht, sieben, sechs, fünf, vier, drei, zwei, eins. _Further darkening. _Null. _"How long?"

Her voice is cool and professional. "A couple hours, at most." His hand tightens on her arm and he can sense her look back, hesitate almost. The way she's slowing down means they've either come to the training center or she's got something important to tell him - and he catches his breath, shoulders tense and eyes straining as he looks in her direction.

And then she clicks open the door and the cold air of the training room hits him. He deflates. Steadies himself.

"Left, right, left," she says in an undertone, right at his ear. He flinches in surprise. "Then the gravel."

"What?" he asks, but she's already pressing a hand to his back, guiding him forward, taking him to the little red square at the end of the long hallway that all subjects begin at. He's been in this room a thousand times before now, but that lends him no confidence - it's constantly shifting, constantly having new additions put in, constantly adding new pitfalls. "Naomi?" he asks, twitching his head back and forth and now it's completely dark, all of it, just a blank wall in front of him of nothing.

He can hear his heart in ears, louder than anything he's ever heard before.

There is no countdown - no nothing, just tense silence and he shifts into position automatically, knees bent and fingers splayed at his sides. The only thing he can hear his his own breathing. Left, right, left. Gravel? What could she possibly -

"Begin," says a cool, female voice overhead.

Castiel knows they expect him to immediately take off, like all the other subjects surely do, but he's blind and he's not taking any risks - instead he drags his feet forward slowly, hands spread out before him in a ridiculous fashion and ears pricked, waiting for any sign of movement before him.

"Left," he mutters under his breath. Left where? Left when? He's still moving at an achingly slow pace when suddenly he hears the faintest sound to his left and he ducks, hearing the wind whistle over his head. He can't see absolutely anything, but instinct takes over - and now his other senses have heightened extraordinarily - far more than they should have, something in the serum perhaps? - and he can hear every touch of fabric on the other person, can almost sense when they're about to take their next breath, and he feints right on instinct, missing another hit, and then sweeps out his leg, catching them by surprise.

He dives forward. And misses. Hits the ground hard, and rolls into them and then slings his leg over their - chest - and - throws a blind punch, connects with bone, feels it break under his fist. Nose. Or jaw.

"Done," gasps the person underneath him, and Castiel's moving on instantly, scrambling to his feet and swaying as he miscalculates.

Arms back out - stumbling forward, until he hits a wall and guides his hand alongside it, other arm outstretched in the opposite direction. Every part of him is already aching with adrenaline, on fire and ready like a coiled spring; the ground has changed from concrete to hardwood floor underneath his feet and all of a sudden there's wind everywhere, grabbing at his clothes and pulling him backwards as he drags his hand forward along the wall and - and, right? Left… right….

He feels the door give way underneath his hand and isn't ready for the person coming out of it, letting out a harsh grunt as a fist collides with his jaw and sends him twisting around. His feet catch around each other and he's falling, slipping against the slick wooden boards - and then a strong hand has him by the shoulder, holding him steady, just as another fist slams into his stomach and he folds up around it, breath leaving him painfully.

_What to do, what to do, move _-

He wrenches himself out of the fighter's grasp, too fast, and he's lost all sensation of where anything is, he needs to slow himself down - he can hear the fighter coming after him for a second time and he doesn't stop to think, simply whirls, hands out, searching, and finds two fistfuls of a basic t-shirt; following his momentum, Castiel keeps turning, shirt still in hand, and hauls the man up and then releases, hearing with a satisfactory thud as he hits the wall and then the ground.

The wind stops.

He waits, arms up, for another attack.

"Done," says the man in a low voice.

He lowers his hands, breathing heavily, and looks wildly around, unable to recognize which direction which take him further into the course. He takes a cautious step forward - then another - and then -

It's wrong. He doesn't know how he knows - can simply feel it, deep inside him, a little voice nudging him in the right direction. It is the same voice that can almost sense what his opponent is going to to do next and he trusts it, implicitly - and turning slowly, he moves until he touches a wall again and walks alongside it, breath finally growing even. The ground makes a switch from hardwood to unstable rock. Just as abruptly as the wind, now it's boiling hot, a burning heat wave flooding the room and he instantly starts sweating, his pants feeling too heavy and shirt too sticky as he blindly moves forward.

How long has it been? How long were those fights? He only has fifteen minutes; one more opponent to get through and then somehow he has to find the button that will stop the course entirely. What will happen if he doesn't? He can't even imagine - maybe they'll blind him permanently. At least Dean will probably raise a fuss about it.

A small smile quirks one half of his face and then -

"Left," he whispers, just as the door slides open and this time there is no immediate attack. He backs away, lowering himself slightly, and waits for the person to move forward, waits for the fight to begin.

It doesn't. There's no movement - not even a whisper of it, and if it weren't for the attacker's faint, shallow breathing, he would think he'd just walked right back out the door. The heat makes his muscles ache for relief.

It's a game, he knows. A game of patience, to see who can wait out the other the longest.

But he doesn't have time to play. The clock's running, and he still has one more step after this to complete in order to pass the trial. "Move," he growls out, tense.

He can almost feel the smile - and then, "You first," and he freezes. Because it's a low, pleasant male voice - one he knows, that voice can't be here right now, that voice can't be about to fight him -

And his rival moves, lightning fast, too quick for his stunned instincts to catch up with. Two quick jabs to his abdomen and then one uppercut to his jaw that sends him reeling back, struggling to catch up - and then he hears the other boy's feet leave the ground and knows what's coming a second before two feet plant themselves into his chest and push him backwards with an unstoppable force. He lands on his back on the hard stone with a pained grunt and she rolls off of him, at his feet. Instantly, he twists onto his stomach, pushing himself up and -

Gravel.

Gravel under his hands.

Why would Naomi warn him about it? What could she -

The boy's still moving, however, even if Castiel's not, and he grips his ankle with both hands, heaving him backwards toward him. Castiel turns without thinking, mid-slide, and kicks out - grimacing as his foot catches his chin and clips his head back. "Alfie," he says.

"You've gotten worse, Castiel," he says, and then clambers on top of him and he knows it's coming - can feel him tensing against him - but not being able to see it makes it ten times worse when it finally does come, his hard fist slamming into his face and knocking his cheek against the floor - against the - gravel. Another punch and then another, one after the other with no warning, and he scrambles for a handful - and throws the gravel into the approximate area, hoping he'll react in some way.

Her growl is just enough for him to flip underneath him and then Castiel is scrambling, gravel digging sharply into his palms as he crawls hands and knees over it - searching - what if she was just saying it and the button's not down here at all but on the wall above him? He'll never be able to see it and then abruptly the female voice is overhead, "_Twenty, nineteen, eighteen_," and Alfie's still coming after him, snarling, and he can't see a damn thing.

"Pathetic," he says over him, and he tilts his head up just before his foot slams into his stomach and he doubles up, choking. "They put you to the field because you were worthless as a test subject. They want to get rid of you."

"Alfie," he coughs out, and skates his hands through the gravel, frantically, unable to dodge her next kick.

"_Eleven, ten_ -"

"They said you weregone," Castiel manages to get out, and then his next kick catches his shoulder and flips him onto his back.

"I never left," he whispers in a furious voice.

"They lied?" says Castiel, and then his wandering hands catch hold of something sticking out of the floor and - "_Three, two _-" with desperation he lifts his hand up and slams it down, praying it's whatever button will stop this madness.

It compresses underneath his sweaty palm and instantly everything stops - the heat dissipates, Alfie makes a disgusted noise and then walks off, the sound of his shoes echoing around the room for a moment before that too is gone. Castiel lays there - sweat-covered, aching, adrenaline-filled, exhausted.

Blind.

It is a very long time before he picks himself up off the ground and a very long time after that before someone comes to help him out of the room.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Dean forces himself to go through a drive thru to waste time, purchasing everything he knows Castiel likes as well as a number one combo for himself. It's stupid, but what else can he do? He's not even hungry. Frustrated, he drives straight back to the building hosting the secret division, furiously staring at it the entire time as he chews his way through his hamburger and medium fry. He's still staring at it as he sips through his large Coke and then as he flips open his phone and dials Sam's number, not looking at the keypad to dial.

"What the hell is taking them so long?" he demands immediately without preamble. "He's been in there forever now - and they're probably running all sorts of bullshit tests on him; probably going to have nightmares every night this week because of it. God, the whole thing makes me fucking sick. I just hope Charlie will get something - _Charlie_." Because he's just realized he hasn't spoken about the OBIT to her since Thanksgiving and he clicks his phone shut without saying goodbye, dialing her cell phone a second after.

"Long time, no speak," she answers on the third ring.

"Charlie," he says in reply, glaring at the building before him. "Please tell me you've found out something fucking good on the OBIT."

There's a pause and then a shuffling of papers. "Why're you asking? You didn't seem all that gung-ho on it when I brought it up."

"They've got Cas."

"They've got - _what_?"

"No - I mean, don't form an attack team or anything," he says, though that doesn't seem like such a bad idea at this point in time. "They called him in for some sort of check-up thing, since he's been in the field for four months and they want to see how it's affected him. Whatever. It's total bullshit, and fucking _Dick _wouldn't let me stay, and so I'm just sitting in the parking lot like an asshole while they're doing who knows what to him." He takes a hard breath through his nose. "So what have you found out?"

"You're not going to like it," she says, and he makes a frustrated noise. "Calm down, I haven't even told you anything yet. Look, Dean, I'm the best there is at hacking probably anywhere, and even I'm a little astounded at how well their security is."

"God dammit, Charlie," he begins.

"Now wait a minute," she interrupts hotly. "I said I was a _little _astounded, and that's because it took me all of nine hours to hack in when it usually takes me under four."

They both sit in silence until she adds, "I'm holding for applause."

"For it taking you longer than usual? Come on."

"I'd like to see you try and break in," scoffs Charlie. "I'm betting on a year. Or more."

Through gritted teeth, Dean says, "Charlie. Did - you - find - anything?"

A brief pause and then, "Yes and no." He sighs loudly and she says, "God, Dean, you sound like you're about to have a heart attack and you're only thirty-one years old. Now do you want to hear what I found or not?"

Grudgingly, "Go on."

"Thank you." More rustling paper in the background. "Now what I did find was utterly pristine - just like their security, completely professional, all of it. Someone's been very efficient in making their records. All of it completely clean."

Dean's about to explode out of frustration, but he keeps his voice low and under control when he says, "So what you're telling me is that it took you nine hours to find absolutely nothing?"

"Yes, and that's the point, Dean, don't you see? Twenty-two years of working and they have _nothing _to show for it? No flaws, no faults, no dirty stains? Dean, someone's been meticulously covering up every little thing that comes and goes in that facility. They have to, in order to keep it a secret from ninety-nine percent of the nation."

"What about Cas? Did you find out anything specifically about him?" Someone walks out of the building and Dean tracks them with a narrowed gaze, suppressing the urge to simply leap out of the car and run into the building and find Castiel and drag him out far away from these sick motherfuckers. "Charlie?"

"It's - yeah," and abruptly she's quiet, subdued. "I found his. Parents, I found his parents."

"You - holy shit, Charlie, you did? Did you already track them down?"

"That's why I haven't called you yet." She takes in a slow breath, and then, "Coma patients. His parents were coma patients."

Dean doesn't know what to say to this. "Were? So they're dead?"

"Yes. Dean, his mother died in 1962 and his father died in 1979."

He reaches up, rubbing his forehead, unable to speak for a moment. "Charlie, maybe you found the wrong people. Same names, that sort of thing."

"You know I wouldn't do that," she's still speaking in that quiet voice that he hates. "They had their social securities listed and everything. So I did it for some of the other subjects - all of them dead ends, either dead before the kids were born or missing. Absolutely none of them were legitimate."

He wildly thinks of telling Castiel to say 'legit' like any normal person, thinks back to their easy moment changing a tire on the side of the road - and then wonders with a sickening feeling how he'll possibly tell Cas that his parents are actually two coma patients that died before he was born. "Can't we get them on that then? On - on forging documents?"

"How? I did further research, Dean, and technically none of these kids actually _exist_. Nothing. No records of them anywhere. And then - I looked at their success rate, and it's higher than anything I've ever seen. Any time they're put on a case, it's broken, in less time than any other division I've seen. They've created mass weapons of destructions, Dean, that absolutely no one knows about. No one's that's anyone is going to let this place be taken down."

"I can't believe that," he says firmly. "This is despicable, all of it. They're - fuck, they're just as much of an enemy as the fucking drug ring is."

"I know. Trust me, I know. And I'm still going to keep digging, don't worry." There is steel in her voice now that he knows is unbreakable. "They _will _come to an end."

"I'd suggest just going in and killing every single one of them if I didn't think they'd harm Cas in the meantime," Dean says and then glances at his phone as it beeps. He puts it back to his ear. "Hey, I got an unknown caller coming in; might be Dick's secretary saying I can get Cas. I'll call you later."

"I'll call you as soon as I find out anything more," she promises, and they both hang up.

Dean says, "Yeah?" to the new caller, and he was right - it is the secretary, speaking in a calm, pleasant voice. The conversation barely lasts a minute and then Dean's hanging up again and getting out of the car, walking determinedly back into the building.

"Where is he?" he demands of the same secretary once inside, and if she's surprised that he got there so fast, she doesn't show it.

"Mr. Novak will be out soon," she says.

Dean has to repress a growl and instead starts pacing, ignoring all the chairs available as he waits impatiently. He makes it back and forth twelve times before a door opens and Cas appears - clutching the arm of a woman and staring vacantly off into space.

"Cas?" Dean demands, voice cracking in worry as he steps forward and the brilliant blue eyes he has come to adore flicker in his direction, pupils miniscule black dots in an ocean of blue. "What - what's wrong with him? Cas - are you - _what did you do to him_?" He's got a hold of the woman's shirt before he can think, hauling her towards him in blind fury.

"Dean, let her go," says Castiel quietly, and Dean immediately releases her, turning towards the teenager and putting a protective hand on his shoulder. "I'm all right."

"You're - fuck, Cas, are you _blind_?" says Dean in a horrified voice, and the two women - Labcoat and Secretary - both give him a reproving look for cursing around a minor. Never-the-fuck-mind that they _blinded _the very same minor.

"It's temporary," says Labcoat before Castiel has a chance; Dean whirls on her again, a fire flaring inside him.

"He can speak for himself," he snarls, and puts himself in between them. There is utter repulse writhing in his chest along with a thousand other different emotions, half of them fixated on the OBIT with rage and disgust and fury and hatred and the other half fixated on Cas with concern and worry and protectiveness and possessiveness. "Cas, are you okay?" he asks in a gentler voice, forcing himself not to reach out and touch him in the way as he's grown used to.

"I'm fine," says Castiel in a weary voice, automatically inclining his head towards Dean, eyes focused on something over Dean's shoulder. He reaches out, hand shaking slightly, and touches the collar of Dean's jacket, wandering upward slowly until he touches the base of Dean's throat and pauses there as though drinking in the feel of Dean's skin. "Don't worry; she's right. It'll wear off in a few hours. Can we go?"

"Yes, of course," he says automatically, and he wants to take Castiel's hand in his but instead he settles for drawing the thin fingers to his arm, watching as they dig into his sleeve. He's trembling and his fingertips dig in harder, burrowing into the suit jacket as if still searching for skin. Dean finally glances back at Labcoat who is watching all of this with an unreadable expression. "He's fine to go?" It's brusque and to the point.

"If his vision is not completely returned by midnight, come directly to the lab," is all she says, and turns on her heel, exiting with her coat flaring out behind her.

"Bitch," Dean mutters under his breath, too low for the secretary to hear - Castiel clearly catches it as he cocks his head at the sound - and then slowly leads Castiel out, glancing worrying over at the expressionless boy every five seconds.

"Dean," says Castiel once they're both outside. "Stop that."

"Stop what?" He aims for nonchalant and misses wildly.

"Stop looking at me like I'm about to break. If you knew what I just went through, you'd know that walking to the car is absolutely nothing. I'd go without your help if I thought you'd let me."

"What did they do to you?" The furious edge is creeping back into his voice. "I'm going to fucking rip them to -"

"Wait," says Castiel, and Dean remembers that they're still technically on OBIT territory. The shitheads probably have cameras all around, listening in to every little thing that's said, and Dean presses his lips together in a thin line, burning. It's not long before they're at the car, Dean opening the door for Castiel and anxiously helping him sit down, but even when Dean's inside as well, he can't bring himself to ask again. The air in the car is tense and loaded as he starts the car and pulls out, tires screeching with the force of his silent anger.

"I got you some food," he finally remembers when they're almost at the hotel. "If you're hungry."

"Not really." Pause. "Thank you though."

They fall silent again. It's only after they've parked and Dean's starting to open the door that Castiel speaks again.

"Do you have any sunglasses?"

"I - yeah," he's about to direct him as to where and then remembers - God, he's such an asshole - and reaches across Castiel to flip open the glovebox, fumbling about for a moment before he pulls out a pair of aviators and hands them to Castiel who slides them on wordlessly. Dean stares at him for a moment, and then Castiel turns his head towards him. "What?"

He looks unspeakably hot in that moment (yeah, Dean knows he shouldn't be having these thoughts about a blind kid, whatever) in a tight white t-shirt and slacks that he definitely didn't go to the lab in. The sunglasses, the strong jaw, full mouth. "Nothing. Let's go."

He gets out first and hurries around to the other side of the Impala, opening the door and reaching a hand in to help Castiel - which the teenager ignores, pushing past Dean and then coming to a stop a few feet away, clearly at a loss as to where to go.

Dean comes up to stand behind him silently. "Can you please just accept my help until it wears off?" he asks at last. "It's only a few hours."

"I'm not a child," says Castiel in a tight voice.

"I know you're not. Trust me - Cas, if I thought of you as a child, would we even -" he can't say it out loud, not in public where anyone might hear. Strong jawline or not, Cas is still clearly underage.

"Then don't treat me like one now. I don't need to hold onto your hand to get to the front door, Dean."

He doesn't know what to say so he merely makes a face at Castiel's back and then turns and get their luggage out of the car. He wordlessly presses Cas's duffel bag into his hand and then says, "You're facing the entrance. About thirty steps. Listen for my footsteps," and moves in front of him, walking steadily in front. He hears Castiel stumble once - and almost turns around to help him but Castiel's already continuing on so Dean does as well.

They make it to the hotel room with little incidence and then Dean forgets to tell Cas about the raised bump at the door and he's just dropped his duffel bag to the floor when he hears Castiel's foot make contact with it and he goes sprawling. Dean's at his side immediately, crouching down with his hand hovering over his shoulder as he asks, "Cas? Are you okay?" with all the concern of a frantic mother hen.

"I'm _fine_," grits out Castiel. His sunglasses had fallen off in the process and he splays his fingers, patting the floor in search of them.

"Here," says Dean gently, pressing the fallen sunglasses into his hands. "But - you don't need to wear them in here," he says, watching as Castiel slams them back on and then uses the wall to haul himself to his feet. "Cas -"

"I'm going to take a shower," says Castiel roughly, and Dean is forced to watch as he runs his hands all along the wall, searching painfully slow for the bathroom door. He doesn't dare say anything, however, and finally Castiel reaches it, shutting the door roughly once he's in. It's not like he doesn't know exactly why Castiel's reacting this way - once more he thinks he has to prove himself to Dean, to show that he's worth something to their cause.

If he hadn't forced Castiel to go through so much in the beginning to prove himself - Dean looks away and moves further into the room, sitting down heavily on one of the twin beds and feeling it creak beneath him.

So he sees it as a weakness then, is that it? Another thing he has to overcome to be considered Dean's equal?

Well, then, Dean will just have to show him differently.

* * *

Castiel turns the water off and then leans his head against the tiles, closing his eyes and telling himself that when he opens them again, he'll be able to see again. It's been a few hours since he was injected with it, right? It has to be. It feels like years since he last saw something - and he knows Dean's probably concerned about him right now, probably thinking Cas'll slip and break his next or something - and everything within Castiel tightens.

If only Dean saw him earlier. Saw him fight _blinded_. Then he would never again question Castiel's fighting abilities. Never fear about having a teenager at his back. They'd act like real partners, instead of Castiel always a step behind, always following orders.

God, but he's so tired of following orders.

"Cas?" comes a cautious voice from behind the door.

Castiel represses a sigh. "I'm coming out soon."

Muffled shuffling. "Don't rush." Hesitation. "But when you get out, I have something for you."

What could it possibly be? A walking stick? A guide dog? "All right," says Cas because it doesn't seem like Dean'll leave the door if he doesn't say something back. He waits until the footsteps have faded before holding his breath and opening his eyes.

Nothing.

All his breath leaves him in one disappointed rush. Just straight blackness, like staring into an abyss. He can feel the disappointment in his veins, weighing him down, and he moves slowly out of the shower, waving his arms around until he finds a towel. Once it's around his waist, he closes the lid to the toilet and sits there with his head in his hands. _Get control of yourself. Stop this. Stop feeling this way. _

Alfie had been there.

Alfie, _his _Alfie, who had been the first person to really pay attention to Castiel outside of the scientists. He'd still somehow had a spark of mischievousness in him, always wearing a crooked little half-smile when he looked at Castiel, like he was about to share his inside joke and bring Castiel in on the secret.

When they kissed for the first time, Castiel had learned the secret. He'd been hesitant and confused and terrified of messing up but Alfie had just pulled back and smiled and said, "Doing fine, Castiel."

And now Alfie is… broken. Wrong. Alfie attacked him, Alfie hates him. Alfie thinks he probably abandoned him.

Castiel is a harsh swirl of emotion. What is he supposed to do? Forget about it? _Tell Dean_? No, absolutely not. He's just going to have to figure it out on his own. If there's even anything he can do. It's not like he can rescue Alfie. The OBIT is unstoppable, unbreakable, overwhelming. No one can escape it, just hope not to be swallowed whole by it.

The situation is bleak, to say the least.

He stays like that until he doesn't feel like he's falling apart quite as badly. Then it's up again and realizing he left his clothes outside and then slowly walking to the door and opening it.

Immediately, Dean's there, a presence that Castiel can feel with his whole body, and it irritates him beyond belief. "I said I didn't need your help, Dean -"

He breaks off when two hands cradle his face and lips press against his, hot and wet and firm, muffling his protestations and then enveloping his surprised groan. One hand slides into his wet hair, tugging lightly against the grain just the way Castiel likes, and he is hard so fast it's embarrassing, all thoughts of his problems gone. It is a welcome relief, an abrupt distraction he didn't know he needed.

"Get on the bed," says Dean in a low voice when he pulls away.

"Dean, I'm -"

"The _bed_." It is said in such a growl that Castiel dares not disobey and it sends another twinge of arousal shooting through him. He moves clumsily towards the bed - far worse off than the obstacle course - and then when his knees bump into it, Dean speaks again. "You can go ahead and drop the towel."

A little whimper leaves Castiel's lips without his permission and he pauses only a short second before he lets the towel fall from his narrow hips before crawling to the middle of the bed and laying down on his back. He waits. Cold air strikes him immediately and he's shivering by the time he hears footsteps coming closer towards the bed - but still Dean doesn't speak and his erection starts to wane. "Dean?" he finally asks, unable to bear it any longer.

"Shh," comes the quiet voice. "I'm looking."

Castiel clenches his eyes shut and shudders from head to toe, imagining Dean staring at him with lust in his eyes - and is he still fully dressed or did he get naked while Castiel was in the shower? He hadn't been able to tell from the single kiss.

"Beautiful," murmurs Dean, and a finger brushes the bottom of his foot, the lightest touch possible but it immediately sets Castiel's skin on fire, aching for more. The lone finger drags up the arch of his foot, making his toes clench. "Castiel, I know you think this sight problem is - well, a problem."

And just like that, his erection disappears entirely, body tense for a completely different reason.

"Hey," reprimands Dean softly, another touch - this time to his calf, fleeting. "Listen." He waits until Castiel cocks his head slightly. "You think it's a problem. But," there's the sound of a belt unsnapping and then a slight whistle as it whips off and is tossed carelessly aside. "I want you to know that there's a silver lining in everything, Cas."

"To going blind?" says Castiel, disgruntled even as he listens to buttons whispering against fabric one by one. Dean taking his white collared shirt off. "I'm useless this way." He thinks about how useless he would have been without Naomi's four hints, how easily Alfie took him down at the end; he flexes his hands now, feeling the scrapes from the gravel.

Dean's voice is deeper than usual and it makes something clench within Castiel as he says, "You are never useless. You are so much more important than your sight or how you fight or what you can provide. Crucial," and now there are the sounds of trousers unsnapping and Castiel's cock is interested again, "to my well-being."

"Crucial," Castiel repeats.

He can hear every little thing in that second. He can hear Dean's quick little intake of breath - hear his heartbeat pounding away - hear the cars outside the hotel - hear the rasp of fabric as Dean's pants hit the floor.

"Need help seeing the silver lining still?" The bed dips under Dean's added weight.

"Well, I _am_ blind," says Castiel, and Dean laughs softly.

"Quiet now," he says, and Castiel instantly goes still as hands touch his calves. Dean slides his hands up, pushing Castiel's legs up with him so that his knees bend and then there's the lightest brush of lips to the inside of his knee, a tender press of lips. "See it yet?"

"I -" his breath hitches. "Still a little unclear to me."

Another huff of laughter against his leg and then Dean moves down, kissing down his inner thigh - and then skipping right over Castiel's wanting hips and kissing his stomach, light little kisses that make Castiel's stomach rise and fall heavily. "So anxious," murmurs Dean, his hands drifting up Castiel's sides, raking over his ribs before dragging back down. "Your heart is racing."

"I - can't - tell where you're going next," says Castiel, head tilting back into the mattress as Dean's mouth latches onto one nipple. And then when he feels Dean smile into his skin, he gets it. "Oh." It's a little gasp and cry all twisted into one.

More laughter, and it is this almost more than the tantalizing touches and soft kisses that is driving Cas mad. "Knew you'd get there on your own. It's all right that you're a little slow sometimes." And then he's leaning up and kissing Castiel - slowly, so as not startle him, dragging his lips against Castiel's and inhaling into him. Cas arches up, deepening the kiss, reaching up with both hands to hold Dean closer.

They both pull back at the same time, breathing heavily, and Castiel's eyes flutter open automatically before he remembers.

"Hey," says Dean softly, touching his cheek, clearly seeing the frustration in Castiel's useless eyes.

Silver lining. Silver lining.

"Stay still," whispers Castiel.

Dean slowly lowers his weight down, straddling him, and grows as still as a statue; Castiel yearns to see what he looks like with all his might but this will have to do. Searching hands reach upward until they come in contact with the underside of Dean's jaw, skirting the edges until finally Castiel climbs higher, touching the rough skin of an unshaven cheek. He drags his palms against the stubble and then presses onward, touching a strong nose and high cheekbones and then reaches closed eyelids, pausing for a moment and feeling Dean's eyes move underneath the thin eyelids, back and forth under Castiel's delicate fingers.

And suddenly he feels more intimately connected with this man than he's ever felt with anyone before - like he could ask anything of Dean and it would be given to him, no questions asked. Scared, he moves his hands further up - into Dean's hair and there he lets his fingers rest for a second until they tighten and he drags Dean back down, hungrily kissing him again.

"Let me," whispers Dean against his lips, and then he's shifting so that his lips press against Castiel's jaw, dragging along until he's at his earlobe - biting down and causing Castiel to shiver at the heightened sensation. Down to his neck now, pausing at his pulse to suck down hard - claiming him, marking him, and Castiel knows he's making little keening noises but he can't stop, can only focus on where Dean might be going next.

"You're so beautiful," Dean tells him.

"Are you the blind one here?"

"You don't see it," says Dean in a gentle chastise. "You don't see it even when your eyesight is 20/20, but you're gorgeous, Cas." His hands drag down his sides, nails digging in just the slightest bit, shifting back until he's between Castiel's knees again and then suddenly there's hot breath on Castiel's cock and he jerks, whining. "So beautiful, especially when you're all needy and wanting for me."

"Want you," pants Castiel, and reaches out searching until he touches soft hair. He weaves his fingers through and then can't resist tugging down, towards his hips. "Please."

"Gonna make you come, Cas," says Dean in a low voice and then takes Castiel into his mouth. It is heightened by ten by his lack of sight and Castiel writhes underneath him, already a frantic mess, and suddenly he knows what he wants.

"Dean. Dean," he chokes out, hands tightening as he tries to drag Dean's eager mouth away. "I want you to fuck me."

Dean pulls away and freezes. When he speaks, his voice is almost unrecognizable. "You sure?"

"Please," begs Castiel. "I need you in me."

There's a sudden, sharp intake of breath and then the bed moves as Dean scrabbles to find lube. He's back in record time and all Cas can do is lay and wait - listening as the cap comes off and it squirts out generously. He drags his legs up, long used to the burn of Dean's fingers in him - welcomes it, clenching around nothing as he waits for something, anything.

"Baby," says Dean lovingly, and presses a kiss to the inside of his knee, as he always does. It is almost routine now, but that doesn't take away from it - no, it gives Castiel a heady sort of rush that Dean knows him so well, knows how to press into him with his finger at just the right angle - and Castiel groans as it slides into him, slick and practiced. Moments later and he's already aching for more, thrusting down on Dean's hand. "Already?"

"_Hurry_."

"Someone's eager," says Dean, and Castiel knows he's aiming for humor but it comes out low and husky and drugged with want; if Castiel could see him, he knows he would see pupil-blown eyes and an open mouth and _God, _he hates being blind. The frustrating whimper that escapes him makes Dean push a second finger in, slowly rotating. He's never so acutely been aware of the spread and twist of those two fingers, deep in his body. He feels their touch everywhere, all at once, setting his veins on fire.

Dean waits until he's a whimpering mess, begging and pleading, before finally pushing a third in there.

"Gonna get you all wet and loose," he says. "Gonna open you right up for me, baby. There won't be any pain, no pain at all. I told you I was never going to hurt you."

"Never," Castiel repeats, breathlessly.

"Never," he agrees.

Soon, Castiel is jerking his hips down against Dean's hand and panting out, aching all over and then aching even more when Dean pulls his hand away. "You sure?" he asks again.

"Dean, I _need _it, need you," and he reaches hands out, breath catching slightly when a hand claims his, fingers intertwining in the air. Dean's palm is rough against his own, damp with sweat, but the tight clutch of his fingers against Castiel's is more reassuring than anything else. It also tells him that maybe Dean is more nervous about this than he's let on. That maybe this is a big deal for him as well. That he's just as scared about screwing it up as Castiel is.

And then Dean shifts forward on the bed, moving towards him, and something hot and blunt touches Cas's hole. He waits, entire body on edge, and then lets out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding as Dean pushes forward, achingly slow. "Dean, _Dean, yes_."

"Oh God," says Dean in a choked voice. "I'm only halfway in - is it too much?"

"Just - just wait a second," manages Castiel. It burns, it aches, but it also makes him feel fuller than he's ever felt before. He can almost forget that he's blind with Dean halfway in him, rocking his hips just barely into Castiel like it's taking everything in him not to just push all the way in. All his senses are on fire, and he thinks even if he could see, he would have his eyes tightly squeezed shut just because actually watching Dean push into him might make him come from that alone.

He wonders what it feels like for Dean; could anything be better than this right now?

He discovers a moment later, when Dean finally moves until he's completely buried inside Cas, that yes, there is something better.

"Never leave me," he begs, one hand clutching Dean's, the one reaching up to trail across his face.

Dean leans his face into Castiel's hand, his breath coming out harsh. "Never," he promises.

"Because I need this, I need this, I need you." Now that he's had this - how is he ever supposed to live without it? His entire body is spread open for Dean, spread wide and vulnerable - he knows now he would give anything for this beautiful man. All his life, he has been treated like an experiment; it is only until Dean came along that he felt equal - but more than that, with Dean he feels _worshipped_, precious.

"Can I move yet?" whispers Dean. He rests his forehead against Castiel's, their breathing mixing together. "You're so - fucking - tight, feels so good, Cas -"

Castiel tilts his head up just barely and kisses him - hot and messy, needy in every sense of the word, and then draws away and orders, "Move, Dean," in his hardest voice.

Dean moves. It's a slow drag out and then a slow push back in and Castiel's never felt so tense in his life, so strung out and pulled in every direction possible. He's released Dean's hand somewhere along the way and now he puts both hands on Dean's chest, exploring blindly - down and then back up, marveling at the way Dean's muscles bunch as he moves. And then he's going faster and - the strangest sound drags out of Castiel's mouth, torn between a whimper and a growl.

"Fuck yeah, Cas," says Dean, slowly down slightly as he mouths along Castiel's jawline. "Moan for me, baby," and Castiel moans as Dean sucks down on his neck. He wants Dean to mark him up - claim him as his - the idea of letting everyone see Dean's mark on him makes his cock throb, pulsing slick pre-come.

He arches back, fingers digging in sharply into Dean's skin as suddenly he hits something like lightning. It streaks out through Castiel's entire body and he gasps, "Again," and, "Faster," and Dean obeys.

It is like nothing he ever imagined it would be. This entire experience, all of it - he never once thought he would find this in his life. This connection, this magnetic pull, this constant _need_ for someone else. It's building in him, consuming, pulsing each time Dean says his name - which he does, constantly, over and over again like Castiel is a god.

That's what Castiel can't understand - the reverence in Dean's voice, the awe in his touch as he grips Castiel's hips. Like he can't understand how he ever got so lucky to get Castiel. Like he doesn't _deserve _Castiel.

It is so utterly absurd that Castiel almost wants to laugh.

Except then Dean reaches between them and grips Castiel's cock, and Castiel can't think of much else other than _need, need, need_.

"You're mine," Dean tells him. "Mine, all of you. I won't let them hurt you, ever again. You hear that?" His scent is all around Castiel, his taste still in Castiel's mouth, stroking Castiel in time with his rolling thrusts - "Mine," he says again, and that's all it takes. Back arching, Castiel opens his mouth in a soundless cry, unable to even breathe as his orgasm rocks through him. His hands dig into Dean's shoulder blades, clawing for a hold, and it feels like a lifetime passes as pleasure rocks through him.

Still can't see though - but he _feels_ it when Dean comes a moment later, speeding up and then letting out a long groan that sounds a bit like _please_ just as something hot shoots deep inside Castiel.

They stay like that for a moment, locked together, until Dean slowly pulls out. Instantly, Castiel feels achingly empty. "I just -" he says and then Dean's gone and a panic shoots through him. Dean's left, Dean didn't like it, Dean doesn't want him - "Dean?"

"Only getting a washcloth, sweetheart."

It's only when he's back on the bed, however, that Castiel's heart stops its mad sprint. He tries not to jolt in surprise when it touches him and a second later he's sinking down into the mattress, melting as the warm washcloth drags over his skin soothingly. It's almost better than sex - this feeling of being taken care, of being adored completely - it drags him down, lulls him into the safest place he's ever been in. Meticulously, Dean cleans every part of him, gently erasing all evidence that he'd been there.

"What were you saying earlier?" asks Dean in a quiet voice. He moves again, supposedly to drop the washcloth onto the nightstand, and then there's the sound of a lamp clicking off (it makes no difference to Castiel) and then he's back on the bed, sliding in next to Castiel and tugging him towards him. "Hmm?"

"I just wish," says Castiel and then turns, burying his face in Dean's skin. "I just wish I could have seen your face when you came."

He almost expects Dean to laugh and is surprised when instead Dean gives a little groan and shifts in the darkness to kiss Castiel - warm and drugged, as though Dean himself is just as affected by the aftercare as Castiel is. "Don't say things like that to me," he whispers.

"Or what?" whispers Castiel back. "You'll do it again?"

"And again, and again…"

"Let's do it," says Castiel. "I'm ready."

That does earn him a laugh. "Calm down, teenager. Maybe tomorrow. I'll teach you the miraculous wonders of morning sex and you'll never want anything else ever again, promise."

"Doubt it," he says. "I think I'll want you in every way possible, all the time. I don't think I'll ever stop wanting this. I think I'll need you always, Dean. More than sight. More than hearing or tasting… just you."

"You have me," Dean says sleepily, and presses a kiss to his forehead. It is the same as the washcloth - overwhelmingly sweet, overbearingly precious. It sends Castiel down, down, his eyelids growing heavy, and he comforts himself knowing that Dean's face will be the first thing his eyes see when he wakes up.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-two**

The call comes in three days later to relocate to northern New Jersey, where Metatron's house is stationed, in order to plant the tracking device. The delay had risen up when Chuck's grandfather had died abruptly or something, and since Rufus refused to work without Chuck and Charlie refused to break into a highly secure mansion without Rufus ("I am _perfectly capable _of doing it by myself," said Dean, with no one listening) and some tech guy they needed was undergoing a lot of anxiety to meet up with them and since none of them can work the complicated tracking device she created, it's been held off until now. With the added bonus of Metatron being out of the country - making it the perfect window of opportunity - it's now or never.

"It does not take six fucking people to plant one little device in a man's house," declares Dean for the seventh time as they drive along the winding road. It's dark outside except for the rolling fog surrounding them, and it's nearly impossible to see with the headlights reflecting back at them. "One could easily do it, if he were qualified. Two at the most."

Castiel doesn't say anything. The first-time-having-sex euphoria has faded fast and he feels itchy, displeased, like he's about to unravel soon. It is a tense feeling that resides deep in the pit of his stomach, pulsing whenever he tries to push it away. Dean's complaints are not helping, nor is the deep fog surrounding them. It probably has something to do with withdrawal from the pills a second time, but he feels trapped, for some reason, as though he is headed towards something dark and despairing.

Dean glances at him sideways. "Cas?" he prompts. "Care to chime in here?"

"You're not wearing a seatbelt."

"Jesus Christ, Cas," says Dean. "Focus on the matter at hand, would you? We're about to go into some dealer's fucking house and you can't even take your mind off whether or not I'm wearing a fucking seatbelt."

"It's important to me."

"Yeah, well, proper gun maintenance is important to me, but you don't hear me nagging about it twenty-four seven, do you? I mean, just once I'd like to be able to drive my own damn car the way I want to."

"Safety," he insists.

"Cas, I've been driving since you were in diapers, can you give me a little credit here?" Dean must be tired as well, because he only speaks that way to Castiel when he's really low on energy.

Castiel spots it a second before it happens - "_Deer_," he shouts and reaches a hand out to grab Dean's right arm. Dean reacts in all the wrong ways, wild and uncontrolled - jerking the wheel hard, he moves the Impala to the right just enough for the deer to slam into the side of it with all three hundred pounds of antlers and muscle. The car is still accelerating forward, aimed now at the snowbanks piled high on either side of the road, and Castiel hears himself screaming without knowing what he's saying as the car spins on ice and then slams directly into a fallen tree trunk at seventy miles an hour.

His whole body snaps forward in half, seatbelt cutting into his shoulder as the airbag slams open in his face, and hears the sharp sound of glass breaking and then, dimly, a body hitting the hard snow outside. Steam pours from the hood of the car. The seat beside him is empty.

It is then that he realizes he was yelling "_Dean_."

"Dean," he mutters into the airbag, and can't move for a second. His body is aching with the force of the impact, something hot and wet dripping from his hair into his face. There is nothing but the sound of his heartbeat, pounding into his ears a thousand beats per minute. _What to do, what to do_.

He has been placed in this situation before.

Once, after he'd mastered the art of driving - after they'd put him on every terrain possible and given him nearly impossible courses to maneuver through, after he'd beaten everything they'd given him - they purposely gave him a faulty car. He knows it was on purpose because after he'd slammed on the breaks and they didn't work and he lost control of the car and spun into a tree, they'd appeared in their white lab coats and impassive faces and taken notes before hauling him out of the wreckage.

What was the point of it? There had been no way to stop it - no way to bring the car to a stop in any other way. It certainly hadn't been a test of his reflexes. Was it to hear him scream? To watch him choke on his own tears and snot at the age of fifteen?

That had been a terrible day. He'd known, by that point, of course, that they didn't care whether he lived or died. Well, they did - they'd invested time and money into seeing how everything affected him, but beyond that, he was nothing more than an expensive experiment. Laying alone in that wreck while they made their casual comments and wrote down their observations, he had never felt more worthless. No one cared about his well-being, not really. It was then that he realized if he didn't care for himself, no one ever would.

Now, he cares nothing about himself. His legs are trapped between the seat and the dashboard - not broken, merely trapped, but he thinks he might have cracked a rib from the way he gasps when he struggles to sit up, tears springing to his eyes. None of this matters, however, except for the fact that it is preventing him from getting to Dean.

"Dean," he rasps out. Bracing himself, he struggles to heave his legs out and then cries out, falling limp against the seat. He cannot stop until he gets to Dean. Louder, "Dean?"

Dead silence. He can't see him or hear him - he could be bleeding out, and Castiel is still trapped in between his seat and the dash. Would it have been better if he were thrown out of the window too? A picture is creeping in his head of Dean with a snapped neck and broken back. If Dean is dead, he will die too. He will cease to exist. There is no life beyond him.

Panics wraps around him, choking him, and he struggles harder, wiggling against the leather despite his definitely-cracked-rib. "Dean, please," he manages, black edging along his vision. He must get to him. He has to save him. He has to -

The strength comes out of nowhere. One moment he's straining up with hands braced on either side of the crumpled dashboard and the next he's ripping himself up out of the wreckage like he's pulling himself out of a feather bed. The door is the next thing to go - even jammed up as it is, it's effortless for him to throw his weight against it and feel it fold out.

Castiel's never been particularly strong before - sure, he can do significant damage if he tries, but his fighting preference has always relied heavily on ducking and dodging and placing one precise hit as opposed to Dean's style of throwing heavy punches. Now though, he feels power course through his veins, muscles tensing and relaxing as though being used for the very first time.

The snow crunches under his feet.

"Dean?" He can't see through the fog and stumbles forward, head swimming. Too much has happened too quickly; immense strength or not, he feels a moment away from collapsing. But first Dean. Dean is always first. "Please - please don't be dead -"

He hears a groan and nearly sags to the ground in relief - but he can't allow himself that relief, and instead presses forward, blood seeping out of his dark hair, hot and messy. The glass from the windshield must have hit his head somehow. "Where are you?" he calls, and then out of the white fog emerges a dark figure on the ground. He thinks he might throw up. Instead, he drops to his knees and reaches out.

"Dean?" he whispers. Trembling fingertips brush the back of Dean's jacket and then he takes a grip on the fabric and pulls, watching with wide eyes as the unconscious man rolls onto his back, head at a sharply wrong angle. "No. No, no, no, no -" and Dean's still breathing, Cas can see that, but he's not waking up and he's not even so much as _twitching_ and what if he's paralyzed? What if he'll never move again? Never reach up to touch Castiel's face, never stroke his hair, never hug him or clean a gun or drive his beloved Impala - "Why didn't you just _wear a fucking seatbelt_?" demands Castiel angrily.

He's crying, he realizes belatedly. Hot tears streak down his face, burning his eyes. "I told you," he whispers harshly. "I told you to be _safe_, for _me_, and you couldn't do it. I have only asked one thing from you, and you _couldn't do it_. And now - _now_ -" He wants to throw up. It's coming, building up in him, stomach frothing with an unidentifiable feeling. It is like being burned up from the inside and also like becoming whole, like sinking into a hot bath and growing wings and breaking down every barrier all at once.

He's not crying any longer - no, he's _glowing_.

"Dean," he whispers, and moves forward, shifting up onto his knees and leaning over to cradle Dean's cold face in his hands. As he does so, he makes an idle note that the throb in his head is gone, as is the ache in his side.

Healed, he knows. He doesn't know how he knows or how it happened - just like he doesn't know how he _knows _that Dean will be all right. "Breathe in," he says, and it seems as though Dean can hear him because he sucks in a hard breath. Castiel's fingers are splayed against his temples, pressing hard enough with his newfound strength to leave fingerprint bruises in his skin. He hasn't blinked in over two minutes and can't remember how to. "Breathe out."

The air leaves Dean's mouth in a rush, forced out by Castiel's command. They are connected by heartbeat and that strong glow now, leaking from Castiel's fingers into Dean's head, seeping down into his skin until Dean is glowing too. The air thrums with heat, soaking into everything in a five foot radius. Suddenly, the snow has melted, streaming into Castiel's clothes like a downpour. Heat and fire and energy ricochet between Dean and himself, building. Crescendoing. There is a song in his head he's never heard before, pure and dangerously loud. His body feels like it's being split in two from the inside out.

He's speaking. Enochian. It's like someone else has control over his mouth, over all his muscles, channeling something enormously powerful through him and into Dean. The light grows stronger.

_Heal, save, restore,_ is what he's saying. _Heal, save, restore. Heal. Save. Restore._

It's blue now, a burning hot blue that sears through his brain like a comet. The world around them is dim in the beauty of the glow, and he's never felt as complete as he has in this one moment bent over Dean. His chest is on fire, the light growing brighter still. It's enough to make Castiel's eyes water. He wants to blink. Wants to blink, can't remember how.

Can't remember how, it's _crucial _that he remembers. The feeling is too much now, hot in his fingertips, aching against his muscles. Causing his back to arch, and now he's gritting his teeth, squinting against the light, _come on, do it, do it, you have to break it off, blink, BLINK -_

His eyes squeeze shut and with a ragged gasp, he sits back, dropping heavily into the snow and feeling brutally exhausted. A moment later, and he gives in to the fatigue and curls next to Dean on his back, breathing heavily. Dean moans beside him and then fall silent. "It's okay," he whispers, refusing to open his eyes. If he does, will it start back up? "It's okay, Dean, I'm okay, we're okay."

What was that?

What's happening to him?

There is only one possible answer, but he cringes away from it even in the solitude of his own mind.

"I'm not," he says. Snow bleeds cold against his back. "I'm not, I can't be."

Dean shifts beside him.

What would Dean think if he knew? If he knew what just happened to Castiel? For a moment, Castiel imagines telling him - but all he can picture is Dean's revulsion, can only imagine being sent back to the OBIT for further studies. Dean already has enough of a hard time wanting him, with their age difference and the fact that they work together - what would he possibly do if they were different _species_?

He's dancing around the word, unable to breach it.

How is this even possible? You can't just _become_ one - you have to be born a - a - which means he's been one this entire time and how wouldn't he notice such a glaring fact?

The answer to that question is easier to accept. The OBIT has been purposely keeping it from him. How, he doesn't know, or why - but it is the only thing that makes sense. Unless he's just defective. A late bloomer. Except the correlation of him not taking his medicine anymore and the existence of this - this surging power in his veins, beating through him like a drum, that can't be a coincidence, right?

_Just say it_, he orders himself. He has to do it now or he knows he'll never face it. Never own up to it, just stay in here in the snow forever, cowering next to an unconscious man.

Eyes still tightly shut, Castiel steels himself and then whispers, "_Angel_."

Angel. And not fluffy-winged or haloed or blessed - no, outcast, tracked by the government, hunted down by those who desire the Grace pumping through him at this very second. Impossibly strong, able to heal, able to whisper words of power into the universe. One of few. Angel.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, hunched over with his knees drawn up to his chest, one side pressed up against Dean. He counts every breath he takes in and tells himself, _This is an angel breathing, this is an angel thinking, I am an angel. _It is a long time before he feels Dean shift again and then groan and start to move, and still Castiel hasn't opened his eyes. If he does, will it start up again? Will his eyes glow an unearthly blue, will Dean see, cringe away?

"Cas?" manages Dean, and now he's starting to sit up, groaning and cursing under his breath. "Cas, you okay? God, what the hell - Cas?" A hand touches Castiel's shoulder, lightly at first and then more tighter as Dean begins to grow concerned. "Cas -"

"I'm all right," says Castiel. There's a moment's pause as Dean clearly waits for him to open his eyes and he gathers up all his courage before he flares his eyes open and clenches his fists hard, an icy cold feeling gripping him.

Dean stares back at him with some confusion. "You sure you're okay? Did you fly out of the car too? _God_, I can't believe -"

Castiel says, "No, I'm all right. I stayed in the car. Are - are you okay?"

"I'm," begins Dean and then stops as he reaches up to touch his neck, grimacing as he rubs the muscle there. "Christ, I ache. Should've worn my seatbelt, eh? Go ahead - be smug. I know you want to be." A smile twists his lips wryly.

All Castiel can see his body lying limply in the snow - broken and twisted and unresponsive. He shakes his head mutely, and there must be something wrong in his eyes because the amusement drifts out of Dean's face.

"Hey," he says, and shifts forward, touching Castiel's shoulder and then pulling him into a hug. Awkward, since they're both still sitting, but Cas melts into it, bury his face in Dean's skin and breathing in needily. His arms creep around Dean's waist, clutching. "Hey, we're okay. No harm done. These things happen - but the important thing is that we survived."

_You almost didn't,_ Castiel wants to tell him, but he doesn't. "How are we going to get there now?"

"Got any spare wings?" Dean jokes.

For a moment Castiel almost reaches around to check, but of course he doesn't. No wings for angels here on earth - no, just other superhuman powers that Castiel doesn't want. Except if he didn't have them, Dean would be paralyzed right now. He's conflicted and torn. "Pass."

"We'll just have to call someone to come get us. A pain in the ass, yeah, but hopefully one of the gang will be around here somewhere. As for Baby…"

It's been well-known since their first meeting how much Dean loves his car, and Castiel sees that now as he gets to his feet (wincing the whole time) and tramps through the snow to his car, making a sympathetic noise as he touches the hood of his smoking car. "Is she fixable?" asks Castiel, coming up behind him. Every muscle screams with a weariness he's never felt before, even with all the training the OBIT's put him through. He wants to sleep for days.

Were they ever going to tell him? Were they ever going to let him know what he was or were they just going to keep him on the pills for the rest of his life? What was the _point_? Surely they would have enjoyed the fact that he was an angel, would have found some use for him. It doesn't make any sense and that's what bothers Castiel most of all.

"Hey," says Dean a third time, turning away from his car to peer at Castiel. "Have you ever had car sex?"

Castiel just stares at him. _You almost died just now_. _The car's a wreck. There is deer blood all over the side_. "People will see," is all he says out loud.

"People? What people? Dude, we're literally out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. It'll take anyone at least thirty minutes to get here." Dean leers at him lasciviously, and despite himself, Castiel feels himself start to get interested. "Come on." Wheedling now, and Dean reaches out, tucking a finger in one of Castiel's belt loops and tugging him forward so that their hips bump together. Dean's already forming a bulge in his pants. "I'll show you all my moves."

"What moves? I've already seen them all."

"Oh baby," says Dean with a smirk and then, tugging Castiel ever closer, leans forward and captures his lips with his own, burning hot against the frosty air. It really hits Castiel then - he almost _lost this man_. He might have survived, yes, but he would have been irreversibly changed, both mentally and physically. Dean has always had his worth tied up in what he does - in what he does for the world but also what he does for the people he cherishes, what he can give to them. And if he'd been paralyzed. If he'd died. Castiel would never been able to do this ever again and that hits him like a wrecking ball, standing in the snow with his clothes wet and sticking to his back and Dean's mouth on his.

He surges forward, hands weaving into Dean's hair and one leg going up around Dean's waist as he tries to get as close as possible. Dean gasps into his mouth, surprised, and then laughs, low and hungrily. "Needy," he says against Castiel's searching lips, but he's the one to push them back towards the back of the car and fumble the door open and then push Castiel inside. All the warmth from before is lost with the gaping hole in the windshield but the heat between them is pulsing and throbbing, a fluttering alive thing that grows and encapsulates them both in a safe warm bubble.

"A bed is much more comfortable," says Castiel, who has somehow ended up below Dean and is being partially crushed from the weight on him. He looks up through heavily lidded eyes to see Dean tugs his shirt open. "Why is this something people do a regular basis?"

"Because it's fun," replies Dean. "Shut up. You're ruining it. Let me get your shirt open."

"It's cold," complains Castiel and then shuts up when Dean leans down and runs his tongue over Castiel's exposed nipple. It's hard and pebbled in the chilled air and feels more sensitized because of it; he can't control the moan that leaves his lips or the way he arches up.

Dean promises, "I'll keep you warm," and then does just that. There's lube in the glove box and it's freezing for a second as Dean leaves to get it but then he's back, hovering over Castiel, slicking him up one finger at a time and then two until Castiel's begging him for more.

"God, you should see yourself like this," Dean keeps saying, over and over like he is witnessing some kind of miracle just by being present for it - let alone being the cause of it. That makes Castiel the warmest of all, the idea that this man views him in such awe and reverence, that making him moan is his single goal in life. And Castiel gives it to him - opens up for him wide and clenches around him hard when Dean finally pushes in achingly slow. He drags his arms up around Dean's neck and pants against his skin, torso covered in sweat despite the chill.

"Yes," he says through gritted teeth. "Yes, yes, go, please, Dean, I need you, I need this so much, _please_."

Thrusting, pleading, a slow pause where everything seems to melt between them as Dean leans in - still buried to the hilt - and kisses Castiel slowly and purposefully. It is as if they are both memorizing the very essence of the moment, taking in all the smells and sights and sounds and _feelings _of it, trying to lock it down forever. And Castiel knows he will never find this feeling of completeness anywhere else - will never feel so _full_ in any other way, with any other person. He clings to Dean, legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck, and whimpers as Dean just barely rocks into him. A fire is building with each little nudge, burning through him. It is not unlike how the Grace felt earlier and that scares him.

He almost lost this. He almost lost all of this. Inexplicably, he feels a sob rising up.

A string of foreign words leave his mouth unbidden, flowing from one word to the next like a stream of water. They sound distant even to Castiel's own ears. It's an outpouring of adoration, of awe, of grief and fear.

"What - what are you saying?" asks Dean, slowing his thrusts as he stares down at Castiel. His chest gleams with sweat, even in the cool air, and his hair is swept back from his forehead.

"You are the brightest shade of sunlight I've ever seen. And like the dawn, you woke the world inside of me."

The way Dean looks at him is enough to last Castiel his entire life. He kisses him then, groaning long and low into his mouth as his lower half just gently rocks into him.

_He's alive, he's alive_, Castiel reminds himself, kissing him back desperately. _Please don't ever die._

And then it's back to just touching, exploring, hot little groans - and then Dean is going faster, the windows are all fogged up, and then, his hand around Castiel's cock, gripping hard and moving in time, it all gets to be too much for him and he comes, hard and chanting Dean's name over and over again like a prayer. Dean follows a few thrusts later and collapses on him.

"You're squashing me."

"You love it," says Dean and kisses him again.

"Call someone to get us," says Castiel, pushing up against him. They have a job, he remembers belatedly. They're supposed to be somewhere soon. They have a limited time slot. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem like Dean actually wants to move any time. In fact, he's draped himself so much around Castiel he doesn't see how they'll ever find the will to get untangled. "Charlie's going to get mad at you," he warns.

"Why not at us?"

"Because she likes me."

"I should have never introduced the two of you."

"_Call someone_."

It takes a while longer and a lot more kisses that Castiel grumpily supplies before Dean wiggles over to where his jeans are draped and fishes his phone out of it. Then it's another forty-five minutes before someone drives out to get them and in the meantime they both manage a second go and the end result is that both of them are quite ready for a nap by the time Benny shows up to get them.

"You'd better be happy I'm not Rufus," says Benny once Dean's in the front seat and Castiel's in the back (for once Dean has put his seatbelt on without any nudging at all). "Otherwise you'd be in for a very long car ride. He'd still be talking about itduring the actual raid."

"I wasn't under the impression that Rufus talked very much," Castiel says, to which both men up front snort.

"Rufus talks when he has a reason to," says Dean. "Which us being late to this little shindig is reason enough for about three days worth of complaints. Why do you think he normally works with witches and we work with angels?"

"I have no idea." Nonplussed.

"Let's just say Rufus and I have had some bad cases together," says Dean.

"And Rufus and Bobby, and Rufus and Charlie, and Rufus and Aaron," adds Benny.

"You think he's joking," says Dean. "But he's really not. Hey, tell him about the case of the burning witches." The seat jerks back a little as Dean reclines it, clearly forgetting that Castiel is sitting directly behind him as he gets comfortable. Castiel briefly makes a face and then looks to Benny's shadowed features as he thinks for a moment then clears his throat.

"The case of the burning witches, right. So, the short history of witches is that they were initially discovered before 1690; religious nuts went crazy during the Salem witch trials in 1692, but while there were actual witches present, all of them were too smart to actually be caught during the trials. It was a big controversy, created a lot of shit, and eventually it was decided by the general public that witches were a myth and the whole thing was one more dark blot on American history. Following?"

He takes his eyes off the road a moment to glance back for Castiel's nod and if it had been anyone else, he might have panicked (having just been in a rather brutal car accident, after all) but it's Benny and there's something about his manner that is soothing, despite the rough beard and scruffy clothes. Maybe it's the eyes. They look at Castiel differently than anyone else, even Dean.

"Right, so fast forward a couple hundred years. By 1960, only a few people know that witches actually exist and none of these people are really willing to do anything about it. And then there was this whole big thing where they found out these six witches were taking children apart to use their organs to do some seriously dark magic - finally, a confidential department is created in the United States government to regulate and control what witches are and are not allowed to do. Another twenty years later and we get to the case of the burning witches."

"Too much history," complains Dean, propping his feet up on the dashboard and then taking them down a moment later at Benny's scowl. "Get to the actual good part."

"Do you want me to tell it or not?"

"Just some friendly storytelling critique, brother."

There's a deeper friendship here than Cas originally saw at Thanksgiving; what have these two been through together? That'd be an interesting story all on its own, but with Dean finally silent again, Benny goes on.

"Rufus was pretty new in the department, I'd say, and Bobby - where was Bobby?"

"Just barely joined."

"Right, that was just after what happened with his wife. Sad story, that. Okay, so the department was in a slump at the time, incredibly small, and Bobby hadn't moved up to head of it just yet, as he'd just started working the field."

"That's what I'd love to see," grins Dean. "Bobby running around shooting witches and blowing up shit."

"Bobby still does that," Castiel comments.

"True."

"Information came in that there was a terrorist group forming made up of a select group of witches and warlocks - and they called themselves the Burning Witches. Nasty piece of work. They had a few fancy spells in place, were able to gain control of some high-up government workers, slowly making a ring of people around the president. No doubt, they were trying to get as many of their own into office before assassinating the president - Reagan, at the time.

"Luckily for the United States, this department exists. Just like this operation, Rufus and Bobby were able to lock in on one of the leaders of the Burning Witches, a woman named Marla Garcia. She was running things from Nebraska, and it had taken them months to lock down on her location because every time they got close, she would just vanish. Still not sure how she did that, actually. Do you -" Benny glances at Dean but both he and Cas now realize that Dean has fallen asleep sometime in the past five minutes. "Ah, well. You're still awake, right?" He glances back at Castiel a second time.

"Still awake," Castiel confirms quietly. "Go on."

"Right, so just imagine the situation they were in. It's 1981 and we have word that the Burning Witches are going to take control of the White House in two days and use it for who knows what. Start World War 3. Burn it down. Bomb some country for no particular reason - who knows. All we know is that we have to stop them. Or Bobby and Rufus do, specifically. So they have a lockdown on her position, in this huge building in the capital of Nebraska, and they secure it down and get to the top floor where she's waiting for them - because of course she knows they're coming and they know she knows - and when they get there, they find…"

"What?" Castiel asks. "What do they find?"

"Charlotte Turner. Rufus's wife."

"Held captive?"

"No. Co-leader of the Burning Witches. She'd been in control the entire time and he hadn't heard a single whisper of it. It was part of the explanation as to how they'd evaded capture so far - he'd told her everything up to that point, except, it seems, the very last mission. That had been too top secret even for his spouse to know. Rufus couldn't do anything against her and Bobby had to make the kill - with them under attack, Garcia started to put into place the last key of their attack, which, as you know, led to President Reagan's attempted assassination in '81. He almost died and Garcia and Charlotte actually did. It was years before Rufus would come back to work, and he only did because they discovered angels in 1994 and needed someone to head the witches side of the department while others came in to work on regulating angels."

A gloomy silence falls in the car, broken only by Dean's slow, sleep-filled breathing.

"That wasn't as funny as I thought it'd be," says Castiel after a pause.

"No," says Benny as Dean snores away. "It never is."

"I never knew that about Rufus."

"Not a lot of people do, unless you were in the department at the time or know someone who was. I wasn't; I found out through Dean, who was told firsthand by Bobby. I'm sure it's not something they want spread around, but if Dean wanted you to know…"

Why _did _Dean want him to know? It was morbid, one man killing another man's wife in order to keep the peace. He wondered what he'd do if someone killed Dean, if Dean were secretly involved in something as dark as the Burning Witches. Would he tell them they'd done the right thing or would he hate them forever? Would he try to kill them, for killing Dean?

Questions he can't answer.

"How did you get involved in all this, Benny?" he finally asks. "You're not actually in the department."

"No," Benny agrees. "And I won't ever be, officially. But I've been helping them as best as I can for the better part of ten years now. I met Dean overseas -"

"Overseas?"

A car passes them and the headlights twist inside the car, lighting everything up for a moment before disappearing behind them. "Dean hasn't mentioned he was in the military?"

Castiel stares at the back of Dean's lolling head and wonders how much Dean hasn't told Castiel about. "No."

"Well, I'm not sure he wants to talk about it that much. None of us do, the ones who survive it. He served two years in Afghanistan; I did four. He saved my life six months in and then I saved his a year later." Castiel had been right; they do have a story between the two of them. "After I got back and met up with him again, I found out he was involved in the FBI - and then from there, I just learned more and more until absolutely no one was keeping anything from me." He laughs.

"So what is it you do when you're not driving people to and from missions?"

Benny scratches the side of his face. "Cook, mostly. I grew up in New Orleans, if you can't tell from the accent. Most people agree that I make a mean gumbo soup."

"I've never had that," says Castiel quietly. "I'd like to try it."

"After all this is over," Benny promises.

If there's anyone at all that would not cringe away from the truth Castiel now knows, it would be Benny. He doesn't know how he knows that - just does, deep inside him. Benny would find a way to accept him and help him through it, while anyone else holds the potential to shun him - even Dean.

It's hard, but he opens his mouth and says, "Benny."

"Yes?"

But he can't say. The words won't come out. It's like he's got something in his throat, clogging the way. "I - I might take a nap. Wake me up when we get close."

"Sure thing." Benny reaches out to fiddle with the radio and in a moment soft, classical music pours out, gentle on Castiel's tired ears.

But try as he might, he can't fall asleep, and it's a long quiet car ride from then on out, as he stares blankly out the window and waits for the conclusion of his weary journey.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: **There's been a bit of confusion, so I'd just like to clarify - just because Castiel is an angel, doesn't mean every person under the control of the OBIT is also an angel. He's a bit of a fluke. It'd be pretty safe to assume that he's the only angel the OBIT has in their labs.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-three **

They're all waiting for them in a dark, dingy hotel room when they pull up, eating nachos and doing nothing much at all, yet each and every one of them gives Dean and Cas an accusatory look when they walk in.

"_Where _have you been," demands Rufus, looking just like he wants to start in on an already prepared rant. Benny's words from the car ride are still echoing in Castiel's head and he can't possibly bear to look at Rufus because of it - so instead he looks around at all the rest. Charlie and Chuck are both playing cards and neither one of them looks entirely awake; Rufus looks like he's been cleaning his weapons; some strange man is sitting in the corner of the room fiddling with an electronic too complicated for Cas to even begin to understand.

"Funny story," says Dean, who looks even more tired after his nap but grim and determined and ready for action. "We made a friend on the road. They were enough of a dear that we couldn't bear to leave."

Everyone just stares at him until Castiel coughs, drawing their attention. "He's making a pun," he explains. "We hit a deer. _Dean _hit a deer."

"Woah now," says Dean defensively.

"I think I'm gonna go," Benny volunteers.

"I don't know if I hate the pun more or the fact that you held us up so long because you _hit a deer_," Charlie says. She looks sullen and not at all like her normal cheerful self.

"Definitely gonna go," Benny says. He leaves without much more fanfare, looking glad to be free of the tense room.

"Let's get to business," says the man from the corner, clutching his device to his chest. "We have 39 hours before Metatron's back in the country."

"And who are you?" asks Dean, lifting his eyebrows.

"This is Frank Deveraux," says Rufus. "He's our tech guy."

"I thought I was your tech guy," says Charlie, and it sounds as though this is something she's said before. She looks even more sullen.

"You're _my_ tech guy," says Dean, looking even more defensive than when they'd been talking about his driving. Castiel knew he'd always been overposessive of his team - of him and Charlie, and here's the proof.

Frank says, "I'm not anyone's fucking tech guy, I'm no one," and glares at everyone in sight but particularly Castiel. "You," he says, moving forward and pointing a finger in his face. "I don't know you. You don't know me. Let's not going about making presumptions about one another, yes?"

"I wouldn't," says Castiel. Why Dean doesn't also get a finger in his face? Does he just look presumptuous?

"I was never here," adds Frank suspiciously. "I was never around any of you."

"We've heard it all, Deveraux," says Charlie, rolling her eyes. "Can we please get this mission started? I want a cheeseburger."

"You'll get your goddamn cheeseburger when the mission's completed," Rufus says in a no-arguments sort of voice, and they all wearily find seats around the room and open up the discussion.

It's all downhill from there.

They start it all off with Charlie, Rufus, Chuck, and Frank going over the sort of security layout they have to get around in Metatron's house. It starts off small, with two alarm systems that Frank is in charge of disabling, but then it leads into cameras that Chuck _thinks _he knows the location of and two security guards that walk the grounds every night that have shifting schedules and oh, right, three watchdogs.

"_Three_?" asks Dean, letting his head thunk back against the wall. He's sitting in the one ratty sofa allotted to the room while Castiel sits on the armrest and Charlie, Chuck, Rufus, and Frank claim the four simple, hardback chairs around the table. "Doesn't this son of a bitch have enough without three fucking watchdogs? What the hell is he protecting in there?"

"Whatever it is, we're going to find out," says Rufus grimly. "Getting in is your job; the background work is Bradbury's, Shurley's, and Deveraux's."

"Well then what the hell is your job?" Dean demands.

"Supervising."

"Bullshit."

"Teacher, Dean's cursing," Charlie calls, raising her hand.

"You're all a bunch of imbeciles," growls Rufus. "_This_ is why you need me to supervise."

From there, they talk about the technology they're using which Charlie developed; a miniscule sliver of a thing that is clear and looks almost like a contact lens. She explains to them that it will be able to pick up any sound in the room; they'll have to put down several if they had any hope of getting useful information.

"What if we lose it?" asks Dean and for once he's not making a joke; he sounds legitimately concerned about such a thing happening. "What if one of us - not pointing fingers, but what if Chuck drops it?"

"Literally how is that not pointing fingers?" asks Chuck incredulously.

Castiel, however, has a more pressing worry. "Shouldn't we tap into his phone as well? What if he says something that's not in the house?"

"We're putting a tracker on his car too, but since he's out of the country, getting ahold of his cell phone will be a little more difficult," Charlie says. She looks aggrieved by this, as though she's personally responsible for this slight overlook.

"Go through the phone company," suggests Chuck.

Rufus scowls. "Too time-consuming to get a warrant for it."

"Illegally," Dean says.

Everyone looks to Charlie. This Frank guy might be their tech guy on this mission, but Charlie had the say-so when it came to technology or hacking at any other point. She thinks a moment and then shrugs. "All right. I'll get it done. But -" she points a threatening finger first at Rufus and then at Dean, "if you idiots get me arrested, I'm dragging you down with me. Cas, you're good."

"Why is _he _good?" Dean sputters.

She shrugs again. "Because he's adorable. Look at him."

Castiel draws back against the wall as everyone's attention is on him for a moment - specifically Dean's - and then the conversation draws on again. Rufus is determined to work out every kink beforehand, from who's driving what to what everyone's wearing and then finally they agree as a whole that there's nothing more that can be said.

"Get some sleep," Rufus says, and also, "Get out of my room," because apparently this is his motel room they've been in the whole time. Everyone tiredly leaves to get their own hotel rooms and both Dean and Cas are too tired for anything physical - instead, they ignore the second bed in the room and curl up together in Dean's, with Cas burying his face in his neck and falling asleep almost instantly. He dreams of a long white beach with Dean behind him, sprawled on out the sand with a lazy smile aimed in Castiel's direction. The sun beats down on him in the most beautiful way. He's never been to the beach before.

Cas sleeps in incredibly late the next day - almost to noon, which is as late as his trained bodies will allow him - while Dean wakes up early to get his car to a safer place than broken on the side of the road. Everyone eats at separate joints (Dean and Cas choose Denny's, of all places) and meet up to all pile into the same car and drive to their next waiting point. It's a dark van that they travel in, loaded down with computers that Frank yells at them not to touch, and it's a bit cramped with the gear and six people all piled inside. They pull up into an empty parking lot of an abandoned Wendy's three streets away from Metatron's house and then they wait for it to get dark.

Immediately, Castiel can tell things are going to go wrong.

"No - don't touch that," snaps Frank as Dean tries to sit down on an innocent black stool. "Not that either!"

"What's wrong with this one?" demands Dean, hovering over a black swivel chair. "I saw Chuck sitting in it like five minutes ago!"

"Don't sit there!" Frank snarls, and then leaves to sit up front with Rufus. They've been gossiping together like two old women the moment the group got in the van; it seems Dean and Benny weren't lying about how much Rufus liked to talk, given the right topic and conversation partner.

"I don't think that Deveraux guy likes me," Dean confides to Castiel a moment later, grumpily sitting on the floor in the back of the van. "Hey, sit down here with me."

"Why?" asks Castiel, perplexed. "He didn't say _I _couldn't sit in those chairs." But he drops to the floor next to Dean anyway, drawing his legs up to his chest to conserve room in the tight space. "Why doesn't he like you?"

"Who knows? Probably intimidated by my dashing charm and good looks."

"That's not it," says Charlie, dropping down on the other side of Dean. "He's a paranoid old bat, that one. Rufus had to draw in a lot of strings for him to get out here. Seems to think people are after him and that we might give him away."

"What's he even here for? Couldn't you handle it on your own?" asks Dean.

She glares, drawing herself upright. "Of course I can fucking handle it. Don't question my talents, Dean Winchester, not after all the shit I've gotten you through -"

"Okay, okay," he says hurriedly. "Sheesh. It was just a question. I was just wondering."

"Well, for your information, Rufus seems to think there's too much equipment for me to work by myself," she says tightly. Clearly, she's still offended. "Hence, Deveraux."

"Well, whatever. If he thinks we're _all _about to give him away, then why doesn't he hate all of us equally?" says Dean, irritated. "He's definitely targeting me more than the rest of you."

"Maybe you're just sensitive," Castiel suggests.

"I am not," says Dean, "_sensitive_."

Charlie leans past him to make purposeful eye contact with Castiel.

"What? Why are you doing that? Stop that," snaps Dean, pushing her back. He turns to Castiel. "Don't look at her. You're not allowed to look at her."

"Uh, excuse you, he's allowed to do whatever he wants," says Charlie in an indignant voice. "Castiel, tell your partner he's a dick." With that, she gets back up and leaves the van.

After a moment, Castiel says, "Is she coming back?"

"Eh. Eventually. Can't be too bothered to get up and chase after her right this moment." He considers it for a moment. "Probably on her period."

"Dean, you're a dick."

Dean sighs. "So I've been told."

An hour and a half into the waiting, Dean's asleep on the floor and Chuck is teaching Castiel how to play poker. It's nothing like any of the other games he's played before - all either board games or simple guessing games - and he finds with a thrill that he loves it. He's terrible at it, not at all like he was at _Scrabble _or _Monopoly_, but that doesn't bother him in the slightest.

"How about… this?" he asks, laying down his hand and then looking up at Chuck expectantly.

Chuck frowns, leaning forward and scratching at his beard. "Pair of sevens? Not bad… but I wouldn't have bet what you did." He lays down a straight. "I was bluffing, see? Acted worried, wasn't really."

"Oh." He frowns too. "You're really good at that."

"Everyone has a tell," Chuck says. "Something that gives away when they're lying. You just have to figure it out for each person. I know Rufus's and that's why he won't play with me any more."

"What is it?"

"Man, I like you, but I value my life too much to tell you that information." It's hard to tell whether Chuck is joking or not sometimes.

Castiel wonders what his own tell is. Hopefully nothing too obvious, if he intends on lying to Dean about what he is. The reminder sours the game for him a bit.

Charlie returns finally, her mood only mildly improved, and sits back down next to Castiel on the floor as she watches them play. Occasionally, she volunteers hints as she watches him play his hand, but it turns out that Charlie's almost just as bad at poker as he is - her hints get him nowhere.

"Ask Dean," she says at last. "He's cheated his way through so many poker games, he's a pro at it."

"It's true," says Dean, having woken up in time to hear this. He doesn't look annoyed to be talked about and called a cheater - actually, he almost looks proud of it. "Didn't make it through college on charity, that's for sure."

"Do you want to play?" asks Castiel.

"Nah," he replies, stretching out and still looking drowsy. "I'm good. You need the practice. Might come in handy one day."

"When in the world could this come in handy?" he wonders.

Dean merely shrugs. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel watches as Charlie crawls behind him to go sit next to Dean, not saying anything as she slumps against him. Apparently all is forgiven between them, just like that. The game continues on, broken only by Chuck's frequent explanations, and Castiel tries not to pay attention when they start talking. Tries, but it's a small area. And he's a bit nosy.

"Gonna tell me what's wrong yet?" Dean asks.

Charlie makes a face. "No."

"No rush."

There's silence between them. Chuck wins with a pair of twos and gives Castiel a sympathetic look. "Come on, man, learn when to fold."

"But -" he frowns and stares at his new hand. Two low clubs. "Ugh. Is this - I mean. I don't know. I'll raise?"

"Gilda and I broke up," Charlie says in a low undertone.

"Oh, Charlie," he says. "The mysterious blonde?"

She shoves him, but it almost looks playful. Her expression turns desolate a second later. Castiel tries hard to focus on his cards. "Just a couple of days ago. Like I want to be on this stupid mission right now."

"Who broke up with who?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

He sighs - not in an exasperated way, but sort of in a commiserating way, as though he understands what she's going through. Has Dean had his heart broken? Castiel never once thought to ask.

"Hey!" says Chuck brightly. "You won!"

"I did?" asks Castiel, astonished. "How?"

"I don't think it counts if he doesn't actually know how he did it," says Dean.

Castiel gives him a dirty look. "You should be _helping_ me, you know."

"Why would I possibly do something like that?" asks Dean, blinking innocently at him. As if he hadn't just fucked Castiel in the backseat of the Impala the night before, as if they hadn't been secretly together for months now.

Grumpily, Castiel turns his back on Dean and resumes playing. Eventually, he gets tired of losing and the game ends, and Chuck and Charlie start talking up their technobabble that absolutely no one but them can understand. Castiel lays on the floor and watches Dean fret about the Impala for a while before that too gets old and he simply falls asleep. He wakes up with a jolt at seven, drool on the side of his face, and doesn't move for a very long time, on edge.

At seven thirty, just when they're about to leave, Dean pulls Cas aside back behind the van.

"Hey," he says, looking dead serious. "Can I talk to you?"

Castiel blinks up at him. He feels strung out from a long day of doing nothing, ready to go ahead and get the mission over with. It has to go perfect. It has to, if they're going to get anywhere with this information. "Go ahead."

"I just -" he turns his head sideways and runs a hand over the side of his face, pondering for a moment and squinting a whole lot before looking back at Castiel. "I just want you to be careful, okay?"

"I'm always careful, Dean," says Castiel with the utmost seriousness. "Why are you saying this?"

"Just - I don't know. I know you can take care of yourself. Kicked my ass enough times to prove it," says Dean. He laughs, but it doesn't sound funny. There's something embarrassed in his eyes that Castiel can't seem to understand.

"Metatron's not even home. There's nothing to worry about. In and out, right?" He tries his best to sound reassuring but there's still a worried tilt to Dean's frown. Maybe it's wrong, but he can't help but feel just a bit warm inside at Dean's protective mother hen nature.

"In and out," agrees Dean, and he hesitates for a moment, looking like he wants to say something more before reaching out and briefly touching Castiel's face and then turning away.

Rufus meets them at the front door of the van to hand them both black leather gloves, watching with a scrutinizing gaze as they both don them. "Acceptable," he says at last. "Don't fuck this up."

"Encouraging," says Dean dryly.

Charlie appears behind them. "Ready to go? Here, take this. Half in this box are for you, half are for Castiel. Don't even _think _about dropping it, Winchester. I showed you how to apply it earlier - you don't even have to turn it on, it's all ready to go. Now. Chuck's arranged to have the cameras switch to a prerecorded setting of the house - and Frank's guaranteed fifteen safe minutes before the security system goes back online."

"Fifteen minutes? That's it? I thought this guy was some kind of fucking genius."

"He is a genius," says Charlie, lifting her eyebrows. "That's why you get fifteen minutes, jackass. Plant the cameras, all six of them, _don't take anything_, don't_ break anything_, and get out. Simple."

"How exactly are we supposed to get in without breaking anything?" asks Castiel.

"Oh - almost forgot," says Rufus, and reaches inside his jacket. He searches for a moment before withdrawing a small silver object and hands it over to Dean. "Back door only, kitchen entrance."

"You have a key?" asks Dean blankly. "When the fuck were you going to mention this? We're literally invading a drug dealer's house in five minutes and you're just now giving us a _key_? How the hell did you even get this?"

"Don't ask questions," says Rufus brusquely.

"Sometimes you scare me, Rufus."

"Seriously, guys - you've got to get to the house at the exact same time Rufus and Chuck get to work or else the whole mission is blown - _go_," says Charlie, and then adds, "and watch out for the guards and dogs," as they turn and start to walk away.

"This is going to go over _great_," says Dean about three minutes later. "We've totally covered _everything_, there is no way this could go wrong…"

"I have a feeling you're being sarcastic."

"Cas, I can't even see where I'm fucking going. The least they've could have done was provide some damn night vision goggles. See, this team does a great job of pretending like it's covered all the bases, but when it comes right down to it, no one has a fucking clue what they're doing. We're all just winging it, every step of the way. Ow - shit."

Except Castiel can see nearly everything in front of him - not crystal clear, of course, but easily enough to know that Dean just ran his foot straight into a rock the size of a small boulder. Easily enough to see every root and bush blocking the way ahead of him, as if he had his own version of night vision goggles layered over his regular eyesight.

"Careful," he says needlessly, vacantly.

Is this another side effect of the Grace? He's been desperately trying not to think about it for the past twenty-four hours, unable to get a real grasp on it, but now he wonders if maybe it'll come in handy in this mission.

"_Careful_," scoffs Dean. "We'll see who's careful."

The rest of the trip is dead silent and then they find themselves as the edge of a tall, black iron fence.

"Did they mention a fence? I don't remember anyone talking about scaling a fucking fence." Dean takes a step back, examining it with a critical eye, and then makes a face. "Right, okay, I'll get down and you -"

The earpiece connecting them both to the base team crackles to life.

"Don't you fucking dare," says Charlie, loud and clear. They both wince. "There's a gate around back. Frank's disarming it now. Go now."

They move. Swift and fleeting, melting through the dark like shadows. For all of Dean's stumbling earlier, he is surefooted and fiercely focused now; the gate rises up out of the darkness, imposingly high, but after a moment, the earpiece crackles again and Charlie says, "Move out of the way," just as it swings open.

And just like that, they're in.

Well - almost. The next bit is a little more convoluted, because they have to avoid the circling guards while getting into the house at the same time.

"The systems are disabled?" whispers Dean, that small sound alone making Castiel flinch.

"Give it a sec."

"Charlie, the guards."

"_Hold on_."

Tensely, they hold their positions, and Castiel wonders what exactly they'll do if one of the guards were to round the corner at this precise moment. Kill them? Is that an option?

"Okay, go in, now, fast."

The key's in the lock and turning before Castiel has a chance to think and then Dean's disappeared inside, taking the key out but not bothering to close the door behind him. Footsteps echo from just around the corner - someone's coming, someone's going to see him and the entire operation will be blown - and Castiel slips inside, pushing it shut, and pressing his back against the door. A breath of relief escapes him and then he blinks at how close Dean is standing next to him.

"Here," he whispers. There are three tiny boxes in one hand which he holds out for Castiel to take. "You know which rooms are yours?"

"Sitting, master bedroom, study." They'd studied the floorplans earlier.

"See you here in fifteen minutes."

"Thirteen," Charlie corrects in their ears. "_Go_."

They go.

The first camera is the hardest. Quick eyes flash around the room, taking it all in with one swoop - the luxurious furniture, the flashy flat screen that spans half of one wall, the enormous fireplace with ornate stonework, God, how much is this one person making - and Castiel can't decide where to put it. Where would the most sound be picked up? On a seat? On the mantle?

He finally decides on the underside of the coffee table, but then comes the process of applying the actual camera to the wood. Dean had joked about dropping it but now Castiel realizes this is an actual problem - he's just barely opened one of the boxes and stared down at the tiny sliver of a camera when suddenly he hears a growl behind him and freezes.

The dogs.

Whirling around, Castiel stares wide-eyed as two dogs snarl at him with ears flat against their head and saliva dripping from sharpened fangs. Where's the third one? Wasn't there a third one?

The hair on the back of his neck stands up, his skin crawling as he sinks into a crouch and he sees both animals ready themselves in the same way, bending down as they prepare to pounce - and they're going to attack him both and the open box containing the camera will go flying and both Dean and the rest of the team will be furiously disappointed -

Unthinkingly, he instinctually throws out an arm and whispers, "_Down_," the only word that comes to mind, and then to his utter shock, both dogs immediately stop growling and drop down to their bellies, peering up at him with docile obedience.

It is only later that he realizes he said it in Enochian.

"Ten minutes," warns Charlie.

"Don't move," he tells the dogs, and they just blink up at him. One of them wags its tail.

"Cas, are you talking?" Charlie asks.

"I - no."

Fingers shaking with adrenaline, he doesn't hesitate now as he crouches under the table and meticulously places one of the cameras under the wood, praying it sticks. Nothing falls and that's the best he can do. Time is running low.

To the bedroom, next, where he sticks the camera on the side of one of the impressively carved dressers, awed at the extravagant decorations littering the room; then on to the study where he finds the third dog asleep on the carpet. Just to be safe, he whispers, "_Sleep_," in Enochian and watches its nose twitch before scoping the room for the third and final camera.

The desk is the obvious choice here and Castiel's just walking towards it when he sees something that catches his eye and stops to look at it - on a podium, by itself, a book titled '_Der Fall der Hexe' _- _The Fall of the Witch,_ and what are the chances he would learn all about Rufus's past only to see this here and now in a drug dealer's study?

His hand reaches out for it -

"Six more minutes, hurry it up, guys."

No time. Don't take anything. Instead, he returns to his original focus, moving to the desk and taking care not to disturb anything as he places it just underneath the middle of the desk. And then it's back to the back entrance, to where Dean is anxiously waiting for him as he paces back and forth.

"Any problems?" Dean whispers, and then when Cas shakes his head, nods and peers out the back door. Immediately, he draws back and mouths an expletive to himself, holding an arm out to keep Cas back.

"Three minutes. Are you out?"

"Guards are right by us," breathes Dean.

"Shit," says Charlie. "Moving?"

"Just fucking standing there.

"Two minutes, forty seconds."

"I have an idea," says Castiel, though he has no such thing. Just the barest form of a concept that may or may not work - but they don't have enough time to argue and he just barely waits for Dean's nod before spinning on his heel.

Back to the sitting room - back to the two dogs, and they're both still just laying there, almost as if they knew he was coming back - and he doesn't know if this will work, has no idea, but it's the only thing that might be able to save them as Charlie says, "Two minutes, ten seconds."

"_Up,_" says Castiel in his most commanding voice, hoping for the best, and if this doesn't work then he doesn't know what to do, he's already wasted too much time for another solution. He doesn't even have a chance to breathe out though before both dogs are on their feet and trotting towards him, tails high in the air as they peer up at him. German shepherds, both of them. "_Good dogs_. _Come_." And he races to the front of the house, not bothering to be quiet as he brings his faithful canine followers to the front of the house and then - "_Howl_," he orders.

And everything up till now might have just been a weird coincidence but now there's no denying that Castiel's got some kind of weird power over them because at the sound of his voice, they both sit down on their haunches and tilt their heads back and _howl_, louder than anything Castiel's ever heard.

"One minute left," Charlie warns.

Back through the house now, racing in and out of rooms - then to the kitchen where Dean looks like he's about to have a heart attack.

"Thirty seconds."

"Are they gone?"

"Yes, fuck, _go_," says Dean, and he's got the door open and they both slip out and he slams it shut and twists the key back in the door just as Charlie says, "The alarms are back on," and for a moment all they can do is just stand there in silent relief and listen to the dogs howl bloody murder.

"Shit, that was close," says Dean.

"Gate's opening. Stop fucking around, you twats," says Charlie, but she too sounds like wrecked with relief.

Through the gate they go and then back into the darkened backstreets, tripping over roots and repressing an urge to laugh insanely.

"Did you do that?" Dean asks once they're out on the street. "Please tell me you actually have some sort of secret power over dogs."

"I have some sort of secret power over dogs," says Castiel obediently and Dean laughs and Cas smiles but deep down he wonders what Dean would say if he said he was serious.

"Honestly, Cas, when you left, I thought we were _fucked_, that we were definitely going to screw it all up - but yeah, that was perfect. I have no clue how the hell you managed to pull that off, but," he stops, right there in the middle of the street and pulls off his microphone and earpiece, dropping it to the ground and then stepping forward to pull Castiel's off too. "You're the only one I'd want to go on super secret spy missions with," says Dean in a low voice.

"How romantic," says Castiel, but his heart is racing.

Dean reaches up with fingers gloved in black leather, touching his chest for a moment before finding a grip in his shirt and tugging him forward. "You're so hot when you're sarcastic."

"I'm hot all the time."

"Also true," he whispers. His fingers tighten against Castiel's chest and then he's pulling him in the rest of the way, kissing him hard and greedily, like a reward for thinking fast. It makes Castiel burn with an aching sort of pride and he presses closer still, pressing his own gloved hands into Dean's hair - and then Dean makes a groaning little noise and pulls away, face full of reluctance. "Rufus is waiting to yell at us."

"But we got in and out without getting captured."

"Took too long."

"Can't ever please anyone," sighs Castiel, and Dean gives him another warm, eye-crinkle grin, touching his cheek for a second before bending down to swipe up their respective headsets.

"Let's go brag about how fucking badass we are."

"Then can we get cheeseburgers with Charlie?"

"Sure, Cas. Then we can get cheeseburgers."


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

It takes more than three weeks for the cameras to come in handy, with constant supervision on all six pieces at all times, long tedious work. They hear more pointless things than anything else, as well as some scarring things as well - Charlie, in particularly, has one such experience with the camera Cas put in the bedroom, that she absolutely refuses to talk about. It's boring work, constant work, with little reprieve. Whoever's on duty at the time has to be listening intently the entire time; missing something would ruin everything. Then they finally get meaningful intel: Metatron's going to make a deal with some guy named Uriel, and they get a location to go along with it. They know he's one of the top dealers; he wouldn't be making a personal deal if it it was something vitally important.

Dean and Castiel get assigned to monitor the situation and to keep the trail active at all costs. Don't get involved. Don't break cover. Just learn as much as you can, that's the instructions.

Unfortunately, that's not how things generally seem to go when Dean's working a case.

They've been waiting for Metatron for hours now and Dean is honestly starting to fall asleep, which is like, rule number one on stakeouts; everyone knows that a sleeping agent is a dead agent.

"God, where the hell _is _he?" he finally mutters, shifting around so that his back is against the stack of crates they're hiding behind, his legs sprawled out in front of him and his gun resting idly on his thigh. He lets his head fall back with a small _clunk_. "Didn't Metatron say they were meeting at eleven o'clock? Isn't that what he said? What time is it now?"

"He did say eleven," confirms Castiel and then, after checking his watch, "Two forty-seven."

"_God_, whatever happened to _prompt_ drug lords," groans Dean, making sure to keep his voice low. His eyes roll to the ceiling and then he glances over at Castiel. "Might as well get comfortable, yeah?"

"Dean," says Castiel reprovingly in a low voice. Dean smirks. Four months ago, Castiel would have been cowering before him and might have come sat next to him simply because he was too scared to disobey orders. Now, he's hunched forward in a tense, alert position, gun held in one hand tightly and eyes darting between the open area in the center of the warehouse and Dean. And he won't relax. So maybe Dean sort of misses the obedient Castiel in that this Castiel often seems to disobey Dean simply for the sake of it. Little prick.

"You're going to cramp up sitting like that."

"I will not," whispers Castiel, shifting slightly as if to prove his point. "Stop distracting me."

"Cas, we've been here for literally hours. I'm falling asleep, man."

Castiel is firmly silent, good little soldier that he is, and now he's not even looking at Dean, purposely training his eyes on the center of the warehouse. Petulantly, Dean reaches out with a boot, tapping Castiel's shoe lightly. When that doesn't work, he pushes a little harder, smirking as Castiel's lean body rocks back slightly before settling back into place. Finally a reaction: Cas scowls. But it's not enough for Dean, and he grins before reaching out and kicking hard enough to push Cas from his curled up position and sprawl on the floor.

"Dean!" he hisses, and there it goes, the little red blush crawling up his face. "I am not here to entertain you! I am a highly skilled, deadly trained OBIT agent! And this is a mission that can lead to saving the lives of millions of people and angels!"

"Oh, come on, Cas," complains Dean, sliding down a little against the crates and rolling his eyes. "Stop acting like a child."

Which is the one insult he'd told himself he would never give. He pauses, glancing up and immediately opening his mouth to apologize before: "_You're _the one acting like a child," mutters Castiel in a very childlike fashion.

Dean relaxes. "We'll have plenty of time to react if they come into the warehouse. It's not like I haven't done this a hundred times before, yeah? Jo and I -" A second pause, this one catching Castiel's attention as Dean's voice hitches. He presses his lips together and then shakes his head and forces himself to carry on. "Used to bring a deck of cards on stakeouts. She was a shitty liar though, so I always beat her at Texas Hold 'Em. Plus, you know. I'm a pro."

When is it going to get easier to talk about her? When is her name going to be able to slip from his lips without a riffle of pain trailing behind?

Of course, Castiel sees this.

Without speaking, he gets to his hands and knees and crawls forward until he turns and sits down lightly next to Dean. There is a long moment where nobody speaks and then Castiel reaches out and takes Dean's hand. His is smaller than Dean's but just as calloused, and their fingers slot together easily. It is the first time he's even initiated handholding, and Dean swallows hard. They look at each other, neither speaking, and he wonders how this is such an impossibly big comfort to him.

Here is someone who has led just as rough of a life as Dean, who has lived through hell, and yet he's the one offering up solace.

"Do you miss anyone?" asks Dean.

He catches it then, the flicker in Castiel's eyes as he looks down to the ground. It's just barely a shadow across his face, and then it's gone, but Dean has spent far too much time with him to miss it. "What? What's wrong?"

"Dean…" He sounds reluctant. "I didn't tell you earlier, but…"

Dread pools in Dean's stomach. "What happened?"

The teenager looks back up at him, pressing his lips together. "When they blinded me -" automatically, Dean's lips pull back in a sneer, "they had me go through an obstacle course, to see my reaction time. I faced three people -"

"_Blind?_" Dean says incredulously.

Castiel silently lifts his eyebrows.

"Right. Go on."

"Anyway, the third person I faced was…" he hesitates and then looks away again. "Alfie."

"Alfie?" asks Dean blankly, staring for a moment as his brain catches up. "Wait - your Alfie? The Alfie you -"

"Yes. That Alfie. I was blind, but I still knew it was him, right away." (_Don't be jealous, Winchester, don't you dare be fucking jealous_.) "I just… he was so ruthless. It was like he didn't care about me at all… I'm sorry, I should have told you sooner," he finishes, looking back at Dean with impossibly blue eyes. "I just couldn't process seeing him again. They told me he didn't live there anymore, but there he was. Like a machine." This last part is said bitterly.

Dean wonders what it must feel like to have to attack the person you once cared about, who you thought was long gone. He leans his head back against the crate and then purposely squeezes Castiel's hand. "Hey," he says after a moment.

"What?" asks Castiel dully, but his fingers tighten around Dean's almost imperceptibly.

"After this is all over. After we take out the drug ring. We'll find out what happened to him, no matter what. Okay? Listen, we have an entire department on our side. We'll get him out, just like we got you out."

Castiel looks over at him, studying him for a moment, and then nods shortly. "What about you?" he finally asks. "Who do you miss?"

The list goes on for miles.

"Absolutely everyone," he says.

They come at three sixteen and that's when everything falls to complete shit.

Not only are Metatron and three of his men present, and Uriel and one of his armed friends - but between Uriel and his accomplice is a young girl with dark hair, blindfolded and gagged with her hands tied behind her back and a silver metal band encasing her neck with a chain attached to it - and the chain is resting directly in Uriel's hands.

"_Hostage situation_," Dean mouths in Castiel's direction, who looks faintly nauseous but thankfully still steady. It's worse than both of them expected. They're trading live products, like cattle.

From here, he can see how the girl hobbles forward, whimpering loud enough for them to hear even at their distance, and he just barely catches sight of a red, inflamed mark at the bottom of her ankle before he turns his face away in disgust. Branded. She's branded. To show fucking ownership.

"Did you bring it?" asks Uriel casually. He could be talking about the weather or the latest basketball game, the way he sounds. Like this is nothing to him, just another day in the office. It sickens Dean beyond anything he's felt before.

"I have it," says Metatron. He's short and scruffy and looks homeless, looking more like a lost college professor than a millionaire drug dealer who trafficks angels. Dean wants to smack his smug smirk right off his stupid fucking face. "How do I know she's one?"

Uriel raises his eyebrows. "Give me the money and you can do whatever tests on her you want. Slit her throat for all I care."

She hears it - she hears it, she starts thrashing, starts blindly running away. The chain chokes her before she gets very far and she falls, unable to catch herself with her hands behind her back, and hits the ground hard, sobbing.

He can't just not do anything. He can't just sit here and watch as Uriel laughs harshly and kicks her, can't just watch as she curls up into the kick like she's suffered through it a thousand times over. He twitches in righteous anger, just enough to knock into a crate - and it skids, just the slightest amount. It's nothing, it's barely there, but one of Metatron's men turns to look and they make eye contact.

Dead eye contact.

That's when the shit hits the ceiling.

"Cas, up!" Dean shouts, and jumps to his feet. The priority is the girl; get the girl safe, get her out of here. The dealers react almost immediately, all of them pulling out weapons, all of them aiming for the two agents. It's chaos, shooting wildly, bullets flying everywhere - without the crates to hide behind, they'd be dead in an instant. For one insane moment, it reminds Dean of hiding behind the snow with Castiel at Christmas. It gives him the crazy urge to laugh. "We've got to get closer," Dean tells Cas as shots ring out. "We've got to get to her."

Cas nods, eyes hard. "You go around. I'll keep them aiming here."

"Right," Dean agrees. This is completely going against everything Bobby ordered him, but he can't find it within himself to care as he crouches low and weaves skillfully through the stacks of crates. If it saves a life, can he really regret it?

He comes out from behind them and catches two men offguard before the rest of the dealers notice; down they go, one in the stomach, one in the head. It's a more even fight now, and then suddenly Metatron hightails it out of there and it's just three of them left against Dean and Castiel. Uriel looks furious. The girl is - where's the girl? Distracted, he turns, trying to figure out where she went, not paying attention. Stupid, stupid. Careless.

"Dean!" cries Castiel, staggering forward and holding a hand out.

Too late, Dean turns. Too late, Dean sees what Castiel saw a moment earlier - one of Metatron's men moving into him with an arm outstretched and then the knife buries itself deep into Dean's stomach, a choking noise leaving his lips as the man jerks his arm up and the knife drags up into his chest, ripping him open.

"_Dean_!" and it is that sound that cuts into him the most, Castiel's ragged voice screaming out his name and it is then that he knows what he's been trying to deny, that he is in love with Castiel fucking Novak. "No! _No_, get off me, get off!"

Dean lets out a rough groan and somehow finds it within himself to push the man off, staggering as he does so and then pulling up his gun and aiming it for the man's face. He braces himself and pulls the trigger, noting with satisfaction the way the bullet tears into skull and membrane alike, blood spurting out with the force of such a close range shot.

He can hear fighting behind him, but already his vision is darkening, white spots blooming to life in his peripheral vision. Of all the ways to fucking die, here in a warehouse is possibly the most cliche available.

"Fuck," Dean says, and he stumbles. He needs to find Cas. Cas can fix this. Cas can - Cas can't do anything. Cas can hold him while he fucking dies. "Fuck, fuck." He's bending at the waist, cradling his stomach as blood soaks into his shirt, and then he rams his shoulder blindly into a stack of crates and falls to the ground in a heap, a broken mess.

He's going to die.

He's going to die right here, and Castiel's probably going to die as well. Or at least get sent back to the hellhole that is the OBIT, and Dean won't be able to fucking stop it whatsoever. The pain ripples through him, and he can't help it, he whimpers, curling into himself and gasping as it sharpens the pain. "Bad idea, bad idea," he whispers. What's happening? Where is Castiel? What's going on -

And then suddenly Castiel is skidding down next to him, breathless and wild-eyed with panic. "Dean, Dean, please stay with me," he says, reaching out to stroke Dean's hair, his face.

"Cas," mumbles Dean, tilting his head and struggling to focus his eyes. "Don't - leave."

"I won't - I won't leave you, _fuck_, Dean, please stay with me," begs Castiel, and Dean feels a half-hearted smile twitch his lips.

"Cas… guess… what?"

"I'm going to find a way to fix this, hold on, just - just let me focus -"

"Cas," says Dean again as Castiel stares blankly off into space and Castiel's attention snaps back to him.

"What? What is it, Dean? Please just don't die, just don't leave me on this fucking earth with no one else." There are tears pooling in Castiel's eyes, slipping down his face, and Dean has never heard a more desperate, wrenching sound in his entire life. His breath is coming too fast, choking on it. His hands dig into Dean's hair, holding him close. Tears splatter against Dean's skin. "Dean, I need you to exist, don't you get that? You told me you wouldn't leave me. You _said_ you wouldn't leave me. I have - I have no one else. No one but you."

"Cas," whispers Dean, and attempts to tug him closer. The movement tears another cry from his lips and then, with everything fading fast, he says, "I love you."

"No," says Castiel, shaking his head wildly. "No, no, this is not goodbye, _this is not goodbye, Dean Winchester._"

"Would never say goodbye to you," but it certainly feels a lot like 'goodnight,' with the lights flickering wildly or is that just in his own mind? The pain is filtering his thoughts, breaking into his deepest feelings, and he wants to say it again, so he does: "Love you, love."

"Fuck, fuck," says Castiel, reaching a frantic hand to rip at his hair and his eyes are wide and terrified. "I have to - Dean, I can't lose you, I'm so sorry about this -" The pale boy reaches down and slides his hand into Dean's blood, searching for the wound and he's no longer crying, but instead looks fiercely determined. "I will not lose you," he repeats, and Dean groans at the touch to his open wound before all of a sudden the room lights up, breaking through Dean's darkening vision. A brilliant blue is lighting Castiel up from the inside out, snaking out of his eyes and mouth and down his arm, into the stab wound. "Close your eyes," moans Castiel, and it sounds ethereal, like lightning to Dean's spine, so he does.

There is warmth and a sense of protection and security and even with his eyes closed, Dean can still feel that radiant blue light burning into his skin, melting into him. "Stop," he gasps. It is flooring him, this feeling, pushing into his very soul and knitting together the broken parts, seeing everything he does not want seen. It is then that Dean realizes just how dark of a creature he truly is.

And then it's over.

The light is gone.

The wound is gone.

Castiel is collapsed in a heap next to Dean, but he's still breathing, and more importantly, so is Dean.

"An angel," says Dean, staring at the boy next to him. "You're an angel. You're an angel and you didn't tell me. And you just - saved my life." He reaches out a trembling, blood-soaked hand, and touches the wild, black hair falling down into the unconscious face.

And then he promptly passes out.

* * *

The first time Castiel wakes up at the hospital, he's alone and it terrifies him. _Where's Dean? _circulates in his mind, over and over, as his eyes flit from one corner of the room to the other - and then he sees the door to the bathroom open and Dean step out, still drying his hands.

"Cas?" asks Dean in a rough voice, and then a nurse comes in between them and says something soothingly to Castiel that he can't understand and something beeps and he sinks back under, down into a haze of painkillers.

The second time he wakes up, Dean is holding his hand. His head is on the bed next to Castiel's, resting on his forearm, and his shoulders are hunched tightly, almost painfully. Castiel tries wiggling his fingers and feels a rush of relief that he can do so - and then regrets it as it causes Dean to stir against him and slowly lift his head.

They stare at each other.

"Cas," says Dean, and then seems to realize he's still holding his hand. He lets go to Castiel's utter chagrin and wipes his hand on his jeans, looking embarrassed and upset. Castiel doesn't know if he's just gotten extraordinarily good at reading Dean's expressions or if recent events have simply caused him to be more vulnerable. "You okay?"

"I -" he checks himself out for the first time, shifting against the bed and feeling for injuries. Then he blinks up at Dean. "I feel fine. Why am I in here? Actually," he tries to sit up and then stops at the tangle of IV tubes around him, "why aren't _you _in here?"

"I'm perfect," says Dean. "Not a spot on me." He stares hard. "Nothing. No old scars - not the scrape on my knee from when I knocked into the dresser last week. Doctor's can't figure it out. Really freaked them out when they saw all the blood on my clothes and no stab wound."

Castiel keeps his expression perfectly blank. "Odd," he comments.

"Strange," Dean agrees. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

He swallows and averts his eyes. There it is. The questioning - the change in attitude - what if Dean reports him to the OBIT? Tells them that he can't work with him any more because Castiel isn't even human? He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to say. Tell Dean the truth or - or what? There's nothing he can say. Dean _knows_. Dean knows and he's still not saying anything, just sitting there and waiting for Castiel to speak.

"It - I, uh -" he coughs and then clears his throat, still not looking at Dean. "I don't know what happened," he lies. "What do you remember?"

It's silent for so long that he chances a glance at Dean and finds him sitting there, impassive. "I remember a blinding white light," he finally says. "And my entire body feeling like fire. Was that you, Cas?"

He can't look away. "There was an angel there," he finally whispers. "Maybe they - saved you -"

"The angel fled," says Dean. "No traces of her left behind; we don't know what happened to her or what her name is. So why would she stop to heal a stranger she knows nothing about before running away?"

Castiel shakes his head just slightly, terrified. The heart monitor is going crazy with his racing heart, the only sound in the room.

Dean says, "Cas," and he flinches, unable to help it. They would have taken a meal away for that alone, because a flinch in a hard situation could get someone killed. How many times has he been punished just for flinching at the wrong time? "Just tell me the truth, all right? That's all I want from you."

"What truth?" he whispers. His hands clench against the starch sheets, digging in like claws.

"Are you - Cas, are you -"

Castiel looks at him again. He thinks he might be shaking. "Yes."

Dean breathes out hard, looking floored, and then seems to steel himself. "And you've - known all along?"

"Dean - _no_," of course that would be the first thing that occurs to him, but it's not true and Castiel shakes his head hard, willing him to believe it. "I found out - I found out at the car wreck -"

"That was _weeks_ ago," says Dean tightly, and sits back in his chair. Castiel hadn't realized he was leaning towards him until that moment and he leans back as well, against the cold hard pillow supplied by the hospital. "You had weeks to tell me and you didn't. Who else knows?"

"No one."

"You sure about that? Or are you lying again?"

"I - I never lied -"

"No, just omitted a very important fact about what _species_ you are. Castiel, we're a fucking team. And you can't just keep that sort of thing from me."

He knows he's shaking at this point, shaking so hard that his muscles ache with it, but he can't seem to get a grip on himself and Dean doesn't seem to notice. "I'm - I'm s-sorry, Dean -"

"_Lies, you're a liar, you know what happens to liars, you little runt?" A kick in the stomach._ "_They don't make it to daylight_." _Another kick, harder, and Castiel curls into it._ "_Take him out of my sight_."

"Cas, calm the fuck down," says Dean sharply, his voice breaking into Castiel's memories. "I'm not here to yell at you, just to make you see that -"

His voice drowns out again.

"_Ready to tell the truth now?"_

_Castiel doesn't even know what lie he's supposedly told, so how can he possibly know what truth they want from him? He opens his mouth to say this, knowing they're not going to believe it - but the agent cocks his head._

"_No, not yet, I don't think so." And he gestures - a tiny movement with his hand that makes everything in Castiel seize up in fear - and the water comes down over his head. It feels like a lifetime that he chokes and flails and screams - but the screams only let more water in and he chokes even more, feeling it begin to spill into his lungs. He's going to die today, he thinks. _

_And then, just as suddenly, the water's gone. _

"_Castiel," comes the soft voice._

"Cas."

"_I'm going to ask you one more time._"

"What the hell - _Cas_, focus on me, listen to my voice -"

_Can't breathe, can't think, they're going to do it again at any moment - he's crying, he realizes, but no one can even notice with the water dripping down his face. If he throws up at this angle, with his body at this slant, will he choke on that too?_

"Hey, can I _get a fucking doctor in here?_ Cas, you gotta calm down, it's not - I'm still here for you," and then through the haze of it all, Castiel suddenly feels lips at his ears, a low voice that he would die for, no matter what, "Remember what I said back there? Remember? It's true."

"_Has Castiel learned his lesson yet on being a liar? Has he learned what the truth is yet?"_

_The truth, _Castiel thinks, both then and now. What is the truth? What does that word really mean? He tries to recall what truth Dean apparently told him in the warehouse - he was dying, he was leaving Castiel behind, he said… he said…

"_I love you_._"_

A memory that doesn't rip into him but rather eases into him, slides down deep inside him where it rests like a hot, glowing stone, spreading warmth up into his chest. Or maybe that's the medicine the doctor's just put in the IV, sinking into his arm.

The darkness overcomes him but even then there is the gentle pulse of those three words beating deep down within him, a second heart, the eye of his storm.

"_I love you."_

* * *

**A/N: **This is actually one of the very first things I ever wrote for the story, and I'm so excited to finally put it up! Please review if you liked it.

- C.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Castiel is released from the hospital the next day, when it becomes clear that he has no real injuries to speak of other than his minor confusion and dehydration. The orders are to keep him well-hydrated (obviously) and check his memory every day, which Dean plans on following to a T.

It's a quiet ride back to the hotel room Dean's booked, with just a brief interlude of: "You want to get something to eat?" "I'm not hungry." "You sure?" "Yes, Dean," and then Castiel spends a suspiciously long amount of time in the bathroom, taking a shower, and Dean's half a second away from bursting in to make sure he's still conscious when he comes out with shaggy wet hair and a flushed face.

"Good shower?"

"Yeah."

"Long."

A slight pause. "Yeah."

And a moment later they're both sitting on opposite beds, a pregnant silence weighing between them.

"So," says Dean. He's been thinking constantly since the trip to the warehouse, and the conclusions he's come to feel too large to say yet. "How do you feel?"

"I feel… fine," says Castiel cautiously. He swallows. "And how are you?"

"Fine," says Dean in a brief tone. "I'm fine. I -" he has to close his eyes for a moment before he can say, "I'm guessing that's due to you?"

"What do you mean?"

He's going to make him spell it out then. Sighing hard, Dean looks away, and why the fuck is this so difficult for him? "Back there, when I was - they got me pretty good. Thought it was going to be the end for me, actually; had all my goodbyes written out. Very poetic, really. And you… stopped me from dying, didn't you? So really, you stopped art from happening. Wow, thanks." The joke falls flat. He forces himself to go on. "And that's not the first time you've done that sort of thing. Is it." It's not a question.

"I - Dean -"

"Come on, Cas, just be honest with me."

That's all it takes for Castiel to look stricken and straighten up, voice falling into a monotone when he says, "It happened before. At the car wreck, like I said. You could have been paralyzed and I couldn't let that happen. I'm sorry if you feel - violated."

Dean drags a hand over his face and then gets to his feet. "Violated? Seriously, what the hell, man."

"And then - the dogs."

"What dogs?"

Castiel looks down at his hands miserably. "At Metatron's house. I had some sort of. Control over them, I don't know. I spoke in Enochian, and they obeyed. That's how I got them to do what they did as a distraction."

So what Cas is saying is that he's now saved Dean's bacon three separate times.

So why does he still have such a foul taste in his mouth?

"I know I've done some bad things, Cas." Dean stands with his back to the teenager, unable to look at him. "I see that, extraordinarily clearly. Trust me, I see the mistakes I've made every single day. But you watched me make them - seen what happens when I don't tell you shit, so why would do the same thing?"

He turns back around, almost expecting Castiel to look ashamed or on the verge of another breakdown, and takes a step back when he sees Cas up and standing right before him.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asks in a low voice.

"Um," says Dean, taken aback. "Sure? I mean, I'm not too thirsty but…" he trails off as Castiel moves around him, going into the bathroom and grabbing one of the glasses in there. The faucet turns on.

Which, of course, is Castiel's way of deflecting the conversation because he just got out of the fucking hospital and Dean's a shitty partner-slash-boyfriend-slash-whatever who can't give him a moment's respite.

"Thanks. You - should get some for yourself, too. Since you're recuperating and shit." Dean accepts the drink and takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving Castiel's face, and yeah, he's definitely a piece of shit because he can't help adding, "This isn't over," as he lowers the cup. "This is an ongoing subject, Cas. I'm - God, I can't even think about it. As if we don't have enough to worry about with Metatron getting away."

He realizes, as Castiel blinks slowly at him, that he sounds an awful lot like his father. God damn. "I just - Cas, I can't believe you wouldn't tell me - me, of all people -" and he's getting angry now, despite what he says. "I'm going to take a fucking shower. I swear I'm not angry. I'm just. I need some time to take it all in."

His fingers dip clumsily into the bedspread as he pushes himself to his feet and Dean throws out a hand, his feet going sideways as he stumbles away and then there's a sound that he belatedly connects with shattering glass. He knocked over the lamp. "What the - fuck," his lips feel heavy and his tongue won't cooperate properly. What's happening? The world sways in and out as he aims for the bathroom. "What's - happening -"

"No, stop," Castiel says, coming up behind him and taking his arm gently as he pulls him back to the bed. "Lie down for a moment. It's starting to take effect."

"What's… starting," slurs Dean. His muscles don't seem to be connecting properly with his head; he staggers heavily before landing face first on the bed. There's a moment where he breathes in the smell of detergent and old cotton before Castiel's hands are on him, turning him over and pushing him more firmly in the center of the bed. "Cas...siel…"

"Shh," whispers Castiel, and then the bed dips as he climbs up next to Dean. Cool fingers run through Dean's hair and he turns his face towards Castiel's heat questioningly, his thoughts growing and shrinking and melting and freezing and burning him. "Dean. Just let it sink in."

"What's… tell…" he manages out, and Castiel lifts his head up tenderly and then sets him back down in his lap.

"It's my Grace," Castiel whispers. His voice is a long twisting strand that winds into Dean's head and swirls around, magnifying large for a moment and then spinning dizzyingly out of control. Dean cannot seem to focus on any one thing that's happening except for the fingers still combing patiently through his hair and then all of a sudden he connects it.

"Grace," he slurs.

And then his entire body seizes up, all his muscles tightening at once, and he's letting out an excruciating yell. Turning, he buries his face in Castiel's pants and dig his hands into the covers, a hot shiver wracking through his body.

"Oh no," says Castiel above him, sounding fazed for the first time since the drink entered Dean's system. "It's - Dean? Oh no, is it too much? It's -" His frantic hands pull at Dean's face, trying to pull him upright as Dean curls in on himself and screams. "It's pure Grace - Dean, I didn't think, I didn't think about it -"

And then suddenly Dean is filled with the purest energy he has ever felt. It is everything beautiful and righteous in the world - it fills every pore of his body, a burning heat that seems to bypass the strongest euphoria. He sits upright, his eyes glowing the brightest blue possible, and looks at Castiel with wonder in his face. "I feel," he chokes out.

Castiel looks wrecked. "What?" he says. "What do you feel, Dean?"

Dean lifts his hands, marvelling over the way the slightest wind brushes over his skin and the way he can hear his own hair moving just barely. Everything is magnified, highlighted, everything is quick and fast and hot and _clear_. He feels as though he has been blind his entire life and now he understands why this is the most addictive drug to enter the market, why people kill for it - because how can he possibly go back to his old, dim life without it?

This is seeing for the first time - this is fucking _flying._

"I feel everything," says Dean in a raptured voice, and jerks up off the bed. His muscles are tight and compact, reacting to everything he thinks five seconds before he thinks it. He needs… he needs - he knows what he needs. Spinning on his heel, he strides powerfully to the door and throws it open, ignoring Castiel's startled yelp behind him. The stairs. Not the elevator, too slow. Everything's too slow, like the world is a murky fish tank and he is the predatory shark aching to sink his teeth into something.

He moves down the hallway, walking quickly at first and then breaking out into a sprint. A wild laugh escapes him, euphoric. He wants to do everything. He wants to live, for the first time in his life. Castiel shouts out behind him, but Dean ignores it, instead aiming for the stairwell and darting inside. Up, he goes. Up, up, so fast his thighs burn. But at the same time, it's not enough. He wants more. He could withstand anything at this point, any kind of pain, it's nothing, _nothing_! He is Dean Winchester, he is a lightning bolt, he is a hurricane captured and tied down in a human body. He laughs again, and it spirals down the stairwell.

"Dean!" calls Castiel frantically behind him. "Stop!"

Stop?

_Stop_? The word is meaningless. What are limits? What are restrictions? He races forward, surging up two stairs at a time, he's on the twelfth story, the fourteenth, the sixteenth, up.

Then, abruptly, it comes to an end. He's panting hard, eyes alight, and doesn't hesitate as he pulls the door open. There, at the end of the hallway, is an exit to the open roof. He's reached it in a flash, pulling that door open too, stepping out into the icy night air. There's a pool out here, the water completely undisturbed. He ignores it entirely, moving instead to the edge of the roof where a high wall separates him from freedom.

He climbs up on it, unwavering. The width isn't very wide; no one intended for anyone to stand on it, but he does, legs strong. A breeze ripples his hair, flattening his clothes against his torso as he stares out at the night.

An unadulterated smile crosses his face.

Bliss, that's what this is. Pure bliss. He knows he can do it. He knows he will feel so much better… falling. Flying. Slowly, his arms spread out from his sides, his head tilting back as he soaks it in. The moment before, that's what he loves. The anticipation.

His wings spread out behind him. He can't see them, just knows they're there - wide, dark wings, with feathers ruffled from the wind. Tilting and turning, spreading as they wait for the drop. How has he never noticed his wings before? He feels so complete with them open, like he has waited his entire life for this moment.

He flexes his wings, testing them. Readying them. He's ready.

The door bursts open behind.

"Dean!" shouts Castiel hoarsely, as though he's been shouting this entire time. "Please! Please - you - you can't! Get down!"

"Relax," says Dean, wings flaring out sharply at the intrusion. "I just want one go. I'll be right back."

"Dean - Dean, _stop!_" cries Castiel, and his voice breaks. "You don't - you're hallucinating! You can't fly; you'll _die_!"

He ignores this, opening his eyes and studying the landscape again. He wants to go… there. Between those two buildings. Then he'll swoop around, show off a little, be back in a flash.

"If you die, _I'll _die!" shouts Castiel.

And that gets Dean's attention.

It's like a quick flitting thought, too fast in his whirling mind, just there and gone: _He, of all people, can't die._

Slowly, Dean turns around, staring down at the boy before him. He's bent over in half, sobbing silently. The gasps are escaping him one after another, like he can't control it, which is odd. Odd, because the Grace came from him, and Dean has never felt more in control in his entire life. Surely if Cas has a surplus of Grace rather than just one drop - surely he would be fine in any situation, right?

But now he looks like he's falling apart. And that gives Dean just one moment of hesitation. Just one twinge of worry. He loves this person. He doesn't want…

"Please," gasps Castiel again. "Just… just get down. Please, Dean."

He cocks his head, considering. His wings flutter impatiently behind him, arcing out impressively. They yearn to feel the wind beneath them, to carry his weight like they're meant to. But that would break Castiel. And he… can't. He cannot do that.

He drops to the pavement, the Grace dimming in his veins just barely.

"Come on," he says. "Let's go back to the room."

Cas looks like he might collapse in relief. Instead, he just nods weakly and follows Dean back to the stairwell, back down the stairs, back into the room. At the edge of the room, he says, "Dean," and Dean turns to him, and Cas kisses him.

It is as if he has never been kissed before in his life, and Dean does it again - and again, pulling back to breathe for a moment only to capture Castiel's lips hungrily, nothing satisfying him. Everything is lightning and fire but instead of overwhelming him, it's as if his mind's able to process everything five times faster and needs five times more to be satisfied.

The urge to fly disappears. Another urge entirely takes it place.

"Cas. Cas, I need you," growls Dean, nipping at Castiel's jaw and then pushing him to the bed, pushing him down and straddling him. Castiel lets out a happy, relieved little whimper underneath him, reaching up to unbutton his shirt and push it off so that Dean's shirtless. "You are - so beautiful."

"I'm sorry I lied to you," says Castiel, but Dean doesn't care about that - doesn't care about anything, is only fixated on the taste of Castiel's skin under his searching tongue. He wants to take and take and give nothing back. Castiel squirms as Dean roughly attacks his nipple, licking and then biting down without warning. "I -" he keens sharply. "I want us to be okay."

Dean says, "I'm going to fuck you."

Castiel takes in a harsh breath. "Dean -"

"Shh," whispers Dean, and plants his hands on either side of the angel's head, leaning in and kissing him deeply again. He drags his tongue against Castiel's, feeling the teenager shudder against him, and then draws his lower lip into his mouth. The Grace whispers _hurry up, hurry up, _ but he takes one more moment to kiss Castiel deeply before pulling back and focusing his attention on undressing Castiel as quickly as possible - which, with Grace pounding in his veins, is faster than ever before.

All of a sudden, the angel is naked before Dean, ready for his perusal, and Dean is still half-dressed and harder than he's ever been before in his life.

"I can hear your heartbeat," says Dean. "Does that mean you can hear mine, when all is quiet?" It's a thought he can't get rid of and he rests his hand on Castiel's smooth chest, feeling him shiver underneath his touch. "Is this how you feel all the time, with your endless Grace?"

"Are you mad, Dean?" asks Castiel in a hushed voice.

Dean closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath through his nose, smelling the sweat starting to gather on the angel's skin.

"Dean?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't find out until -"

Dean's hand clenches, his short nails digging abruptly into tender skin and causing Castiel to cry out in alarm, Dean's eyes flaring open. "Why didn't you _tell me_? As soon as you found out?"

"Because I was afraid," says Castiel.

Dean stares at him for a moment, seeing every individual fleck of blue in his eyes, and then unbuckles his belt and unsnaps his pants. He barely seems to notice when he's off Castiel and standing but a sore noise from Castiel shows that he definitely noticed. "Turn over," he says, and his voice sounds hollow to his ears. "On your hands and knees."

Castiel scrabbles to comply and Dean feels his cock twitch at that, at the utter control he has over this angel - this young, vulnerable angel who would be willing to do anything to appease Dean, to earn his forgiveness.

Dean slides his pants and boxers off and then he's naked, cock hard and leaking.

"You should have told me," he says quietly, and watches as a shudder ripples down the angel's body.

"Dean," whimpers Castiel.

He's never felt this alive. He's never felt so destructive. He wants to strike down the immoral and burn down everyone who's ever offended him and he wants to fuck someone so hard they scream.

Wants to fuck Cas so hard he screams Dean's name.

"Prepare yourself," he orders in a hard voice. He can see Castiel's legs trembling underneath him. Slowly Dean reaches down, taking himself in hand and tilting his head back at the instantaneous relief and pleasure it brings.

"Do - do I - can I use lube?"

For a moment, he considers saying no. The really sick thing is that he knows Castiel would obey - as eager for praise and forgiveness as he is - if he told him he was allowed only spit and nothing else. If he made Castiel lick his cock and make it nice and wet and told him, "_Better make it good, because that's all you're getting_," and Castiel would only lick harder until his lips were red and lips were covered in shiny spit.

But angry and destructive as he is, Dean's not a sadist. And he's definitely not a rapist. No, he won't be doing anything tonight that Cas isn't begging and pleading for first.

"Get the lube," he says in a husky voice.

Castiel scrambles to obey and then sits back on the bed, moving to rest against the headboard and then immediately looking to Dean for permission; Dean nods, and then Castiel's attention is diverted as he opens the bottle and squirts a generous amount on his hand. He's still shaking but there's nothing but anticipation in his expression as he reaches down past his cock and then slowly, leaning his head back and spreading his legs, he presses a slick finger into himself and let outs a tiny whimper.

Dean drags his hand teasingly against his own dick, eyes locked on the angel before him. "That's it," he says lowly. "Keep going."

Castiel's stomach is tight, his chest heaving with controlled breaths, but he listens to Dean, slowly moving his finger in and out and then in a circle, stretching himself.

"Another," says Dean.

Castiel's head snaps up. "Another?" he rasps out. There's sweat clinging to the tips of his hair, gathered in the hollow of his collarbone. "Dean -"

"_Another_," says Dean tightly.

Castiel takes in one harsh breath, then another. He lifts his hips off the bed slightly, maneuvering, and then hisses through his teeth as he pushes another finger in and waits.

"Move," Dean orders.

He makes an odd little noise, the muscles in his thighs tensing up and then Dean watches as he seems to get himself under control, closing his eyes and leaning back against the headboard and taking one deep breath, slowly, before pushing his fingers in deeper. His cock is neglected and only half-hard but it twitches a little as he slowly fucks himself on his own fingers. In and out, disappearing into the tight ring of muscle again and again. It's only a matter of moments before he's enjoying it, moaning now and arching his back up as he begins to move his fingers faster.

"That's it," says Dean approvingly, still slowly pumping his cock. And then Castiel starts to make little choking noises and Dean's eyes harden. "Don't you dare fucking come."

Just like that, Castiel seems to remember what he's doing and for whom; he stills almost instantly, fingers buried in his hole past his first knuckle, and he opens his eyes and stares heatedly at Dean. "Please."

"Please what?"

He cants his hips up, expression pleading, wanting. "_Please_, Dean, please, I need you."

"Hands and knees."

Castiel lets loose a broken little moan as he drags his fingers out of him and then he's moving, turning over and sliding back, his back dipping down as he gives willing access to Dean. It's a tantalizing view - his hole open and wet, sloppy with lube, waiting to be filled. He's a quivering mess. Dean moves and finds the abandoned bottle of lube, letting it drip onto his hand and then sliding it against his cock. Takes his time, lets Castiel grow impatient and needy. The bed creaks as he gets on it and moves to position himself behind Castiel, gripping the bottom of his dick and Castiel's hip as he presses the head of his cock into Cas's hole.

"Oh," says Castiel, and shudders.

Dean says, "Fuck," and also, "Shit," and then, "Baby, come on," as he pushes in with little rocks of his hips, now both his hands gripping Cas's hips as he slips in, inch by inch. It's the tightest thing he's ever fucked, pushing all the way in until his balls are resting against the curve of Castiel's ass and he can't move any more.

Castiel's whimpering. His head is down, resting on his forearms, the muscles in his back rippling underneath his skin.

It's partly the Grace, he knows. The way his skin feels like lightning and his muscles thrum with energy. It feels as though he could come and come and still have stamina to go all night; he pulls out, forcing Cas to cry out, and thrusts back in, hard. "More?" he grunts.

Castiel's shaking, sweat glistening everywhere, and for a moment it seems as though he's not going to respond and then: "More," he rasps out.

Dean doesn't hesitate. Pushing in, pulling out, lost in the animalistic rhythm of it. Brutal in his conquest, unable to help the little groans slipping out as Castiel squeezes around him like a vice.

Yes, part of it is the Grace, the euphoria of it - but the other part is Cas himself. Beautifully hot, young and lithe, a masterpiece. Moaning and whimpering and shaking and calling out Dean's name, over and over like a prayer. And then when Dean slows slightly - thrusting in harder now, deeper - and reaches beneath him with a hand still wet with lube to take Cas in hand, stroking him in time with Dean's thrusts - the teenager reacts like nothing else, whole body tensing up.

"I'm - I'm -" he sounds like he's dying, "_coming, _oh, Dean, don't stop - fuck - fuck, don't stop, Dean -"

He contracts sharply around Dean and Dean growls, slamming in over and over again with all the force of a hurricane. And then all of a sudden his orgasm knocks him into him and he stills, throwing his head back, whole body tense as it rides through him. He's gritting his teeth together, a noise escaping him unlike anything else, and it is pleasure that he's never felt before. Power and adrenaline and bright lights and Cas still moaning into the sheets, begging for more, _more_.

He pulls out - almost enjoying the slight hiss Cas makes - and watches as his own come slides out of Cas's filthy hole down his thigh. Unthinkingly, he reaches out, swiping a finger through it and coming up with a glob of it - and when Castiel turns around, he holds it out, still feeling the fire roar through him. "Lick," he says.

Castiel looks up at him, unkempt and mussed and looking well-fucked, and then leans forward and draws Dean's finger into his mouth, tongue swirling against it as he sucks.

Dean pulls his finger out, watching the way Castiel's hazy eyes follow it with longing. "Still want something to suck?" he asks in a low voice.

Castiel just looks up at him, dazed and lustful.

"Clean me up. Get it all up. I know you want it."

"I do," murmurs Cas, and he shifts forward on the bed, dragging his tongue up Dean's sensitive member lovingly. Another little moan escapes him as he licks away at the come there - and then he takes it into his mouth, eyes closed as he moves his head up and down it.

Dean can't believe what he's seeing. Cas - moving with limbs heavy with exhaustion and clearly still lost in his post-orgasmic state - dragging up come off a cock that was previously just in his ass. It's the hottest thing Dean think he's ever seen and if he hadn't just come, he would be ready for round two. As it is, it gets to be too much after just a moment and he pushes Cas back by the shoulder, moving his hand up to cup the boy's face afterward to soften the movement. "Come here," he murmurs.

Castiel struggles to get up on his knees, still eager to obey, and kisses Dean sloppily, messily. Here is someone who would do anything for Dean's touch - anything just for half a second of affection and approval, and Dean gives it to him. Back down on the bed he pushes him, covering him up with his body as he kisses the angel with everything he has.

He can taste his own come on Castiel's tongue.

"Dean, Dean," says Cas after a moment, breaking away and looking up at him with those muddled eyes. "I - I'm sorry -"

"Later," Dean says. "Tomorrow." Already he can feel the Grace dying away in his veins, leaving him empty and exhausted. He wants to sleep a thousand years. "We'll talk about it tomorrow."

"Don't leave, okay?"

"I won't. I said I won't."

"I just couldn't bear it if you did," says Castiel in a quiet voice, and after Dean turns the light out - not even bothering to clean them both up, that can wait for the morning as well - he clings to him in a pathetic sort of way, as though he still doesn't trust Dean to not be there in the morning.

Dean falls asleep hearing every beat Castiel's heart makes.

* * *

His body aches when he wakes up, and Dean just lays there for a moment with closed eyes, feeling both incredibly hungover and like someone just beat the shit out of him. He never wants to drink or do drugs or smoke ever again in his entire life - how do people become addicts? How do they willingly ingest it knowing they'll have to face this moment right here as soon as the high is gone? It doesn't seem worth it in the slightest.

Beside him, a body shifts, and suddenly Dean remembers exactly why he feels this way.

"Dean?" comes the quiet inevitable whisper.

He feigns sleep. A gentle hand touches his hair, running along it then dipping further down, combing soothingly through his hair. It's no wonder Castiel likes it so much when he does this - it pushes Dean back towards sleep, soothing the throb that's started up in the back of his head.

"Dean. I'm sorry," Castiel whispers again.

Dean shifts, throwing an arm up over his face, and regrets it as the fingers in his hair still and then slowly withdraw. "Why'd you do it, Cas?"

It takes the teenager a moment to speak, as though he first has to gather his thoughts. "It was wrong of me. I - I was scared."

That he knew, of course. They were both terrified, all the time. "Of what?"

"Of… you leaving me."

Dean lays there for a moment, arm resting heavily over his eyes, and then he moves his forearm and rolls to his side, staring at Castiel who he now sees is also on his side, watching Dean with a petrified expression. "How would drugging me solve anything?"

He swallows hard. "I thought maybe. If you felt it. You would see that I'm worth it. That it's not all bad that I'm an angel." A slow flush is creeping up his neck and he looks shameful. "I can make you feel good, Dean. All the time, you can take whatever you want."

Dean wishes he still had his arm over his eyes, that he didn't have to see this expression before him, so wanton and longing and young. "Cas, you know I don't want Grace. You know that. I don't want you here because you're _useful_ to me, I - I thought you knew that."

"I'm sorry I lied," whispers Castiel, looking more mournful than he has a right to. "It's just - I was afraid you would get angry and then you - you did -"

"God, Cas," says Dean, and pushes him onto his back and curls up on top of him. He feels Cas shift underneath him to get comfortable and then press his cold nose up into Dean's throat, a small noise escaping him. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just. Get angry sometimes and can't control myself. I'm not leaving, I told you that."

"I know," whispers Castiel. They're both silent for a moment and then he says, "I like you like this. On top of me. It makes me feel safe."

"Mmm." They don't have too long; at some point they'll have to go in to work and face what damage's been done by screwing up the Metatron thing but for now - for now, Dean just breathes in the smell of Castiel and tries to forget everything else.

"I guess," he says after a little while, "we're even now, huh?"

Castiel makes a questioning little noise.

"I mean - I gave you the pills. You gave me your Grace. Does this make us even?"

"Oh. I don't know. Does it?"

The way Dean sees it, he has two options here. The first is simple: he can let it go. He can pretend it never happened, forgive and forget, go about his life like he did before and pretend his boyfriend didn't drug him. Perhaps not the healthiest option, but it's the easiest for everyone involved. Dean has always been rather exceptional at pretending certain things never happened.

The second option is messier. It involves long, emotional talks about what is Right and what is Not Allowed and will probably end in either one of them crying or one of them punching something. Neither sounds particularly appealing.

He realizes he loves Cas. He'd said it before - in the heat of the moment, dying as he was - but now he thinks it again to himself, calmly and rationally. Tries it out once, then twice, seeing if it fits. Like trying on a shoe or tasting something for the very first time. _How do I find this? I love him. I love you, Cas._

Shifting, he moves his head down until his lips can press against the tender skin of Cas's neck, kissing his way till his reaches Castiel's shoulder and then back up. He pauses at the fluttering pulse he finds midway, presses his lips down more firmly on it and then sucking lightly. Cas's breathing hitches, and it is a beautiful noise.

He does. He does love this person. This _angel_. He would do anything for him, he thinks. Even forgive him for giving him that particular drug. Cas had no idea of knowing what that drug meant for him - no idea of knowing just how personally Dean despises it. He was just an innocent kid, acting out in fear. A lost animal, who didn't know any better.

"What was it like?" asks Cas in a rough voice, not meeting Dean's questioning gaze. He stares off into a corner of the room. "The Grace?"

After a moment of thinking, Dean says, "It was like flying."

"Oh."

"It made me understand why people are so willing to hand over their life to it. Why they take more and more, despite knowing that it will one day kill them."

"It was that good?"

"It was that _dangerous_."

"Oh," says Castiel again.

"There's too much of a good thing, Cas. It felt good, yeah, but… it wasn't worth it. It was _too _good, you know?"

"Hmm," says Cas, and they fall silent. Dean kisses him again, on the underside of his jaw now. Wonders when Cas will be able to really grow a beard, if he'd like that. Would it scratch him? Would that feel good? He rubs his own scruffy cheek against Castiel's throat and thinks he'd like to try it. He can feel the vibrations of Castiel's voice when he speaks again. "Actually, I don't know. How was it too good? How can something be toogood?"

Dean pushes himself slightly off the angel, moving to the side and propping himself up on his elbow as he looks down in the innocent face. "It was… it was fake, Cas," he says slowly. "It heightened the experience, yeah, but… Sex with you doesn't need heightening. I don't want to think, 'Oh, that was great because of the drugs.' I just want it to be good enough on its own. You take one hit like that, and it makes everything else seem so… small. But I don't ever want something to dim this. I don't want to think, 'Oh, that was nothing compared to the Grace.' I want every touch from you to be a drug on its own. That's why it was too good. Because it wasn't real."

Castiel studies him. Sometimes it is so much to be on the receiving end of that gaze - to see so much intensity trained solely on him. Cas makes him feel like a god, with those eyes on him, and it's all Dean can do not to shy away. "I think I understand now. I'm so sorry, Dean."

"I'm not angry," says Dean, and he's not. "Come here." And this time it's Castiel climbing on top of him, and when their lips meet, it is a slow ember that warms Dean to the core.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-six**

It happens without warning, without a sign, without any notice whatsoever; they're at the office, for once, with Garth in his office and Charlie in hers and Dean and Castiel playing Tic Tac Toe on a window with a marker as they wait for more intel on their latest lead, a new batch of Grace appearing in Montana. Uriel has been officially declared dead, and Metatron's escaped. He hasn't been at his house in two weeks, which bars out all their effort there, and altogether they've been righteously screwed over. It's a miracle Dick hasn't called them back in, and Castiel waking up each morning thinking, _today will be the day._ But it hasn't happened yet, and Dean tells him not to worry. Overall, it strangely went better than Castiel expected - even Bobby didn't yell at them, because he was in the hospital when everything was truly chaotic. The thing in Montana seems to be heading their way; two ODs already, but until they get more information, they can't do a thing.

Castiel's winning.

"How is this possible?" Dean demands. "Are you _sure _you've never played this before?"

"I'm positive, Dean," Castiel says in a patient voice, having said this at least three times prior. Dean always gets this way though when Castiel wins - goes into a bit of sulk and refuses to come out until he's won again. "It's your turn."

"No - you can't be X, I've been X this entire time - I'll get confused," protests Dean, stabbing his marker in the direction of Castiel's innocuous X at the top right corner.

"It's too late, I've already written it."

"Erase it."

Utterly exasperated: "_Dean_."

Muttering darkly, Dean makes a move - and then Castiel - and then Dean goes again, this time with an X.

"You did that on purpose!" Castiel says. He is playing with a child. With a five-year-old child.

"No, I didn't, I _told _you I would get confused -"

"I'm going to go make some tea," says Castiel, getting to his feet and meticulously placing his marker on the sill. "Want anything?"

"Yeah, I want to beat your seventeen-year-old ass at fucking Tic Tac Toe."

"I'm eighteen now, Dean. And do you happen to want anything _age appropriate_?"

"You're - what, when did that happen?" sputters Dean, looking shocked. "We didn't even have a birthday party!"

"I'll take that as a no then," he says, and moves off to the little kitchen kept by their division. It's surprisingly well-stocked and he finds Charlie already in there, sitting on a counter with her legs swinging as she eats Ritz crackers out of the packet and reads a magazine.

"How's Hangman going?" she asks, not looking up from her magazine and stuffing another cracker into her mouth.

"We were forced to quit after one of us used a word in Enochian and the _other one_ threw a fit even though it was never specified in the rules that the words had to be English," says Castiel, moving to one of the cabinets and opening it. He reaches up and picks out a box of Chai tea, moving to get a mug before glancing at Charlie. "How's the research going?"

"Slow," Charlie says around another cracker, still staring at the magazine. "Garth's squealer has the flu and he's been running around trying to find someone else that will give us some information. What was the word, by the way?"

Castiel pauses in filling up his mug with water to give her a crooked little grin. "Pie."

The magazine finally comes down and Charlie stares at him for a moment until she laughs. "And he couldn't guess it? Wow, that is em-bar-_rass_-ing. Dean Winchester has fallen so far."

"To be fair, I don't think he knows the Enochian symbol for E, which complicates things a bit."

"Mm, a bit," she agrees, kicking her legs out and then banging them into the cabinets below her. "What've you moved on to?"

"Tic Tac Toe."

"And how's _that _going?"

Castiel glances at her again as he simultaneously puts the mug in the microwave and presses one minute. "Do you see him in here?"

"Sulking?" she asks with a grin and then they hear the sound of something shattering in the other room. Both heads swivel to stare at the door. "What the hell is he doing in there? If he's smashing stuff just because of a damn game of Tic Tac Toe -"

"Want me to go check?" asks Castiel in the sort of voice that suggests this is what he's used to wtih Dean.

Charlie rolls her eyes. "Nah, I'll go check on the big baby. Maybe I'll challenge him to a game and let him win, just to make him feel better." She hops down from the counter just as something else crashes, and she frowns deeply. "What is he _doing_?" Castiel's eyes follow her as she storms out of the door, letting it swing shut behind her, and then he turns around to watch the microwave finish counting down.

And then someone screams from the other room. Castiel whirls - acting on instinct as he bursts through the door and comes to an immediate halt, unable to process what he's seeing. For a second he thinks it's just another game - just Dean playfully tackling Charlie and Charlie screaming in mirth - and then she screams again, one of real fear, and the scream turns into a grunt of concentration as she tries to get out from underneath him.

"Dean!" shouts Castiel, and from a distance he can see Garth run out of his office. He ignores him - darting forward and gripping the bigger man's shoulder, heaving him back with all his strength and knocking him sideways into a lone desk. "What the hell's wrong with -"

But Dean's not listening to him, no, he's picking himself up off the ground without a single moment's hesitation, a dark growl leaving his lips. And that's when Castiel sees his face - truly sees his face, takes in the faintly glowing blue eyes and blank expression etched there; it is an expression of concentration and expertise and that is it. Closed off. And completely one hundred percent focused on Charlie.

He moves to the left - and Castiel's there, blocking his way - and then to his right, and Castiel follows, hands up in attack position.

"Move out of the way," Dean snarls, and throws a punch.

Castiel dodges it easily, ducking underneath and then throwing his leg out in a sweep - which Dean jumps over. "What do you want with her?"

"_Move_," Dean says again, and this time he forgoes the punch and backhands Castiel across the face, an unexpected move that sends Castiel crashing back into the wall and leaving Dean's pathway clear for Charlie who is still laying on the floor, holding her ankle.

"No," spits out Castiel, picking himself up and he hurtles forward and slams into Dean like a brick wall, just barely pushing him off-course. It's enough, however, and Dean's attention is on him for a second, and Castiel shouts, "Charlie, _move!_" as he and Dean exchange lightning quick hits, back and forth, the two of them nearly moving in sync after their long months sparring together.

Castiel sees Charlie struggle to get up from out of the corner of his eye, Garth rushing to help her up, and they both move towards her office - and then Castiel's distracted, backed up against another spare desk and he jumps up on it without thinking, grabbing things from it and hurling them at Dean one after another with unbeatable precision - stapler, roll of tape, paperweight - and it's only after a hole puncher clips Dean in the forehead and he starts gushing blood without even flinching that Castiel recognizes that something is very seriously wrong.

He jumps down from the desk nimbly and Dean growls, shoving it out of the way and stalking towards Castiel with all the predatory grace of a jungle cat.

"Dean," says Castiel in as calm of a voice as he can manage with his heart pounding in his ears. "Dean, it's me. Castiel. You're - you're under some sort of spell or something - Dean, _please_ -" And then Dean swipes out again, too fast, and Castiel lurches back, feet twisting together and giving Dean just the advantage he needs to catch a fistful of Castiel's shirt and haul him forward -

And then there's a frantic pounding on the glass ceiling-to-floor windows of Charlie's office and Dean pauses, turning his head mechanically and staring for a moment with deadened eyes at Charlie and Garth beating on the window.

He drops Castiel to the floor without a second thought, moving with stiff shoulders to the door where he twists the handle and then shakes it with a frustrated growl - and then _breaks it right out of the door_.

Castiel watches, transfixed in horror, as Dean slowly starts methodically kicking at the door - and it strains underneath him, a long crack running down the middle on the fifth kick.

What is happening? What is he going to do? How is he going to stop this? _What is happening_? It's like Dean's turned into a robot - and as he watches, Dean gives up on his kicking and moves to grab one of the simple wooden desk chairs, flipping it upside down and hefting it in his hands for a moment before walking back to the door, shifting in place for a second, and then slamming it against the door.

The chair shatters into pieces.

"Hmm," says Dean, and moves to get another.

Castiel finally looks at Charlie and Garth - and then leans forward as he realizes they're shouting at him, trying to get his attention.

"What?" he asks before he remembers Dean and glances up quickly to see if he's back to targeting Castiel - but no, his focus is solely on getting to Charlie and he looks back, squinting. He can't hear their shouts and they're both moving their mouths too much for him to lipread and then - "Grace," he whispers as he finally catches on.

He's an angel.

He's an angel and - what? What can he possibly do it with it? He can - he can heal people? Could he somehow heal this out of Dean or - and then he realizes Charlie's still trying to get his attention and Dean breaks another chair against the door, effectively pushing it in half an inch. She's pointing at her eyes and then at Dean and Castiel shakes his head, not understanding and then -

His eyes go wide.

Dean's eyes. Glowing blue. Like Castiel's hands did when he healed Dean - _Dean is being controlled by Grace_. Somehow, someway, impossibly. It's the only thing that makes sense - and suddenly Castiel knows what to do. He's up off the ground and bolting out of the room without a second thought, flying as he aims for the stairwell and runs - races down the stairs, down and down and then he's pounding out of the building and breathing heavily as he skids to a stop at the Impala. He tugs at the door - and feels everything within him turn to lead.

It's locked.

But not for long. Cursing vehemently, Castiel slams his palm against the back window, once then twice then a third time in hard fury - and watches in amazement as it cracks outward in long reaching lines. A third hit causes the glass to crumble in. He reaches in and unlocks it, yanking the door open a moment earlier and then dragging his duffel bag towards him. Dean could be breaking open the office door at any moment - or he could have changed targets and be attacking anywhere else in the building and it's _all Castiel's fault_.

He finally finds what he's looking for and he's turning and running, holding his badge up and streaming past as he runs back up - up six flights of stairs, up and up and up, his calves burning by the time he's reached the top level again. He doesn't have time to catch his breath, however, and he's back in the main room and yes, Dean's made it through and Garth looks unconscious against the far wall and Charlie is held into the air by his hands, slowly strangling to death as her mouth opens uselessly and her hands scramble weakly at his.

"Dean," cries Castiel and doesn't even get a reaction. Charlie's running out of time - Garth might have a concussion - and Castiel can't get the fucking pills open - he finally snaps the lid off, pills flying into the air, and manages to grabs a handful in his sweaty palm. He takes a deep gulp of air and then runs full speed at Dean's back, twisting at the last moment and ramming his shoulder hard enough into Dean's back that he stumbles and lets Charlie slip out of his grasp.

She gasps for air, and Dean turns on Castiel.

"Open wide," snarls Castiel, and slams his hand flat to Dean's mouth just as his foot goes behind Dean's and sweeps forward, sending him to the ground with Castiel following. He sits on his chest, nails digging in as he keeps his mouth over Dean's thrashing head, and is reminded of their fight in this same building so long ago.

And then Dean chokes, lurching up as he swallows all the pills, and falls back, still straining for release.

"Please work," whispers Castiel furiously, leaning over Dean as he keeps his mouth closed so that Dean won't try to vomit them up. "Please work, please work -"

His eyes roll back in his head, his face slowly losing color - and then, gradually, his eyes flutter back down, blue sheen gone, and he goes limp under Castiel, unresisting.

Slowly, Castiel removes his hand.

The only sound in the room is Charlie's ragged breathing and four separate sets of wild heartbeats. Castiel feels like he's about to combust.

"What - was - that," Dean finally manages.

Castiel slumps off him, finally allowing himself to gasp for air, and he finds himself leaning back against Charlie's desk, closing his eyes as he tries to calm down. "Grace spell," he says.

"What's a Grace spell?" Dean asks, and when Castiel opens his eyes, he's looking at him with genuine fear in his green eyes.

"I don't know."

"Someone was controlling me?"

Castiel feels exhaustion creeping into every fiber of his being. "We can assume so, yes."

"But - how?" It's a question that no one here can answer and Dean seems to realize it almost immediately. "How did you know those pills would work on me?"

Brief pause. "I didn't."

They both know what this means - and Castiel watches as Dean glances slightly over at the now-coughing Charlie, tears running silently down her face, and Castiel knows this is just another problem to add to their ever-growing list.

* * *

After they've driven both Charlie and Garth to the hospital, Dean silently drives the car to Bobby's house. It takes nearly an hour with traffic and he doesn't say a single word the entire time, not even when Castiel asks him where they're going or what they're doing. Finally, Castiel gives up and the silence between them lays thick and heavy and painful with unsaid words. He realizes where they're going when they enter into the neighborhood, instantly recognizing the houses around them, but doesn't say anything. All he can see is Dean underneath him, eyes flaring that terrible blue. He wishes to never see it again.

"I need the panic room," is the first thing Dean says to Bobby when he lets them in.

"What happened?" asks Bobby gruffly and looks between them. His eyes narrow and he looks back at Dean. "What's happened to you?"

"_The panic room_," grits out Dean and looks furious. "Bobby – I'll answer it as soon as you take me down there."

Bobby stares at him for another moment and then shakes his head the slightest bit and turns, leading them both downstairs. The basement is dark and dirty and Castiel is entirely confused as to what is happening – and then Bobby cranks open a heavy, metal wheel and pulls open a huge metal door and gestures them inside.

Dean doesn't stop until he's at the far wall and he holds out his arms, legs shoulder-width apart. He looks determined, and Castiel can't understand what he's doing until he realizes there are strong leather straps dangling from the wall.

"Strap me in," he orders Bobby.

But Bobby looks just as fiercely resolute. "First tell me why."

Dean turns to Castiel. "Strap me in."

"Is this about the spell?" he asks in a quiet voice. "Because it's over, Dean. It won't –"

"Goddammit," says Dean and bends down and starts buckling his ankles into the straps.

"_Dean_," says Bobby sharply and starts to move forward but a warning growl from Dean makes him stop. He manages to get both ankles and one wrist into the buckles before looks back at them with a defiant glare.

"Am I going to have to use my fucking teeth or will one of you help me with this?" he demands. His voice cracks at the end and it is the most pitiful thing Castiel's ever heard in his life.

The three of them just stand there for a moment before Bobby heaves a disgruntled sigh and moves forward, shoulders tense as he buckles the strap around Dean's right arm and then moves back. "There, you stubborn son of a bitch," grunts Bobby. "Are you going to explain what the hell this is all about now?"

Dean's head drops back against the wall and he looks as though a wall has come down in him, like he can relax for the first time in years. "Cas, explain."

"He – it wasn't his fault," begins Castiel, "Some sort of spell activated and – and it was like he zeroed in on the first person he saw, which happened to be Charlie, and he just… he attacked her. I managed to block it though. And Charlie's all right. This is an overreaction," he adds.

"No it's not," says Bobby, surprising them both. Dean instantly looks grateful. "Until we know what caused this, it's only right that you stay in lockdown. Who knows what would have happened if this kid hadn't been a trained fighter and – and how did you block it?"

Castiel feels uncomfortable. "It was a guess. I… I had some pills. In the car."

Thankfully, Bobby leaves it at that. "So – witches, is that what you're thinking?"

"I honestly don't know, Bobby," says Dean, sounding like he could sleep for a thousand years. "I was hoping you and Cas could do some research, maybe, while I sit this one out."

"For how long?" Castiel demands. It's unbelievably frustrating that Dean and Bobby don't seem bothered in the slightest at the idea of leaving Dean like this – locked up in a chilly metal dungeon with no one but his own guilt for company. Castiel cares, though – Castiel knows Dean doesn't deserve this. "How long until you're allowed out again? We have a case, you know. People are relying on us to be out there working – not just sitting around, with our hands tied up."

"You think I want this?" asks Dean, looking annoyed. "I didn't ask for this. I'm doing the right thing here, Cas, which you'd see if you pulled your head out of your ass."

It's the first time Dean's talked to him like that in what feels like months. "How long?" Cas asks again.

"I don't know." It's said tightly.

They both look to Bobby. "Three days," he finally says. "If we don't find out anything in three days – if nothing else happens, we'll just have to assume it was a one time thing."

Dean looks skeptical but Castiel is just happy it's not a full week. With the way Dean looks right now, he'd probably ask for a month if he thought he could get it from either of them. "I'm going to make some tea," he announces, and turns on his heel to leave. He never did get it back in the office and if Dean needs anything, it's a warm drink to remind him that he's not the monster he was previously.

Ten minutes later, he walks back downstairs, hands full of three chipped mugs balancing precariously as he makes it to the heavy metal door. He hesitates for a moment, wondering how he's going to get it open with no free hands, and then pauses when he hears his name. And he knows he shouldn't listen – really knows, it's been drilled inside his head since he was able to talk – but something keeps him where he is.

"- going on?" It's Bobby speaking and he sounds suspicious. "Come on, Dean. You can't lie to me; I practically raised you."

There's a long silence and Castiel's about to give in and open the door when Dean speaks, sounding resigned. "Yes. We are – yes."

Another pause and then, "Fucking hell, Dean. For how long?"

"Since… We discovered the bodies in Michigan."

"For that long? And you didn't think to tell me? Have you told _anyone_?"

"I – who could I tell, Bobby? Who would possibly react to the news positively?" He sounds beyond irritated but also a little ashamed. Castiel has a good idea of what they're talking about.

"Not even Charlie?"

"No." More hesitation and then, "He's over eighteen now."

"_Now_." Bobby sounds furious. "But when you started? Dean, you could lose your job. You could go to _jail._ And if the OBIT finds out –" It sounds like he's pacing. "They'll take him away."

"I know, okay? You don't think I didn't think of all this before it started?"

"It sure fucking sounds like you didn't."

"Well, I did. I thought it all through and – and I still went with it. What does that tell you?"

The pacing stops. Castiel imagines them staring at each other long and hard and then, "Must mean you really think something of him."

Softly, "I love him, Bobby."

"And so what – you and him are just gonna go prancin' off into the sunset when all this through? _Fool_."

"If you have any actual helpful suggestions, I'd love to hear them." But he sounds resigned, like he expected nothing less. Like he deserves nothing less. Castiel wants to sink into the floor – except. Except Dean said he loved him. He'd said it the one time during the fight scene, when he was dying, but he hadn't said it since and Castiel had long since stopped wondering if it was part of the adrenaline or actually real. Now he knows. Now he knows that Dean meant it. Is willing to go to prison and lose his job for him.

"Are we even going to mention the fact that there's a fourteen year old age difference between you two?"

"I know how it looks. But he's not seventeen, Bobby - he's been through so much, and honestly, he acts like someone just as old as me or even older. If he's allowed to fight and work, why shouldn't he be able to -"

"All right, save it," says Bobby gruffly. "You love him, eh? Well, I guess there's nothing I can do or say about it now that would actually change anything."

Soft pause. "Does that mean you give your blessing?"

"I ain't blessing nothin' about this - but you're like a son to me, Dean, and if anyone deserves happiness after all this… it's you."

"Thanks, Bobby."

It seems like their conversation is done now so Castiel creeps away a bit and then clomps forward, purposely walking loudly towards the door before shifting his load around and pulling open the door. "I hope everyone likes vanilla," he announces to the room. Bobby won't meet his gaze and mutters, "I'm gonna go check this out," before shouldering roughly past him.

Castiel looks at his back before looking to Dean. "What happened?" he asks. He wonders if Dean will lie.

But he doesn't. Doesn't even seem to consider it, merely lets his head fall back against the wall, eyes hooded as he says, "Bobby knows."

"About us?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm," says Castiel, and sets down the three mugs down on a long black seat resting in the middle of the room. "And?"

"And… and that's it. There's nothing else to say about it."

"He doesn't mind?"

"Oh, he minds," says Dean. The muscles along his forearms ripple for a moment as he flexes his hands, apparently testing his bindings, and then he relaxes about it. It's twisted that he would feel more free chained up; how long then has he felt like a danger to others? There is a feeling deep within Castiel that tells him Dean has wanted to be chained up long before now, and not in a sexual way or perverted way - simply because that is who he is. Who he has become - someone who believes he's better off locked away. "But is he going to tell anyone? I don't think so."

Castiel doesn't know what he looks like at this moment but it's enough to make Dean stop his fidgeting and look at him, eyes widening as he takes Cas in.

"Here," says Castiel, to distract him, moving forward and holding the tea up. "Let me take off one of your straps so -"

"No," says Dean immediately, brusquely.

Castiel sighs, dimming a little. "Can I give it to you myself then?"

Grudgingly, "Okay." Then, "But don't tell anyone about this, you little shit."

Pressing his lips together, he carefully holds the mug up to Dean's lips and waits a second before tilting it back and watching Dean's throat work as he swallows it. He brings the cup down and away after letting Dean drink enough, and meets his eyes.

"Does it really matter that much to you?" asks Dean.

"If what?"

"If people know we're together?"

Castiel shrugs, turning to awkwardly examine his mug which is still on the black seat. "I don't know. Makes it feel more real, that's all."

"Cas." Dean waits for Castiel to look back around at him. "I would tell the whole world if I could."

He feels small, just then, with Dean's eyes on him in that way - tracing him longingly, yearningly, as though he really means it. And maybe he wants to mean it. But Castiel can only imagine how much grief that would cause him and he has never felt less worthy of it. "It's my fault."

"What's your fault?"

"This," he says, jerking his head to where Dean is tied up against the wall. "It's my fault that you were affected by it. The Grace. I did it."

"Cas, what the hell are you talking about?"

"The Grace," he insists. "I drugged you with mine and that - that allowed you to be controlled. My fault."

"Cas, no," says Dean, and for a moment it looks as though he's forgotten that he's restrained as he pulls against it and then sags back against the wall, frustrated. "It's not your fault - it's whoever the fuck made the spell. And we're going to stop them before they can do it again. Don't you dare blame yourself."

Castiel just watches him.

Dean says, "Put the cup down," and he does, and Come here," and he does as well, moving forward slowly until there's less than a foot of space between them. "Closer." He moves closer, so that his chest bumps up against Dean's. And then Dean leans forward, straining against the leather straps until his mouth can brush against Castiel's; Castiel opens his lips willingly and Dean delves deeper, somehow managing to dominate the kiss even strapped up.

Castiel whimpers into his mouth and brings his hands up, threading his fingers through Dean's hair as he presses ever closer, inhaling sharply as Dean sucks down on his bottom lip.

"God, you taste so good," whispers Dean into his mouth. It makes Castiel shudder against him and then he rocks his hips into Dean, loving the way Dean's entire body tugs against his restraints as though aching to be closer to him. He kisses harder, deeper, one of his hands moving to rest against Dean's face, tugging him closer.

"Want you," groans Dean. "Fuck."

This is what he wants - not recognition of their relationship but just this right here, Dean strong and needy against him, Dean greedy for more and wanting him out of all the people he could have. He wonders what Dean would do if he got down on his knees, right then, with Dean helpless against it. Imagines Dean's prick hot and thick in his mouth and feels his knees start to weaken.

And then the metal door clangs open loudly behind them and Castiel pulls away, breathing heavily and blushing dark as Bobby stares at the both of them.

"Well, you weren't lyin'," he says after a moment. "If you ever let me catch you two goin' at it again, I'm gonna kick you both of the house and never speak to you again."

Castiel reaches up to wipe his mouth with the back of sleeve (Dean's saliva wet against his lips), feeling mortified beyond belief. A quick peek at Dean, however, reveals him not looking embarrassed in the slightest - in fact, he actually looks rather _amused_, as though being caught by Bobby was his goal in the first place. Castiel is nonplussed.

"Did you come down here just to yell at us or do you actually have something?" asks Dean, his voice rougher than usual.

"Found out a few things," says Bobby, stepping warily into the room as though Cas and Dean are about to start going at it like rabbits at any second. He walks around the rim of the room and then comes to the black bench in the middle, picking up what is his mug of tea and sniffing at it. "There any alcohol in this?"

"No," says Castiel.

"Disappointing," says Bobby, and pulls a flask out of nowhere, screwing it open and then pouring a generous amount into the hot liquid. He shakes the cup a little and then lifts it to his lips and drinks. "Ah," he says afterward, smacking his lips. "Good stuff. Now -"

"Found a few things?" prompts Dean drily.

"Ah, right," says Bobby, and throws down a packet of paper onto the black bench.

"What's that?" asks Dean.

"Articles. Detailing the outbreak of murders that erupted earlier this morning," says Bobby gruffly. "Approximately… 52 thousand deaths across the United States between eleven AM and twelve PM. It peaks at 11:27. Your friends at the addiction clinic had at least thirty themselves."

"Shit," says Dean. There is no humor in his face now. Castiel feels like he's about to fall through the floor. "So that's it, then. It wasn't just me - it was every fucking person who's ever touched the fucking drug."

"Thirty-two thousand," says Castiel. He's about to throw up. The room is spinning around him and there are now thirty-two thousand people he feels responsible for. He imagines he can feel the Grace running through his veins, as thick as blood, imagines ripping it out of his skin and burning it all up so that it can never hurt another person.

"What the fuck are we going to do, Bobby?" demands Dean. He looks pale and sick, his hands clenching and unclenching repeatedly.

"We're." He stops and reaches up to rub his beard. No wonder he wanted alcohol in his tea. They all need a good drink. "We're going to stop them. As usual."

"Thirty-two thousand, in one hour. And it could happen again at any second. Could happen to me as well, and I can't even imagine what would have happened if Cas hadn't been there to stop me. God _dammit_." Dean screws up his eyes and hits his head back against the wall.

"Is that one for everyone, you think?" The only way to stop himself from going into a downright panic attack is to enter his strategizing mode, the soldier side of him taking over. "Everyone that's ever imbibed?"

"Doubt it," Bobby says. "Imagine some of them were possibly unconscious, asleep - who knows if it works then - or alone. From what you told me, it sounds as though the victim targets the first person they see and don't relax until that person is dead. Which makes this…" he trails off.

Castiel's the first one to say it. "An army. Someone's been creating an army."

"Shit," says Dean again. "Shit, shit, shit. What the hell are we going to do? There's no way we can distribute enough of Castiel's pills to everyone before they strike again. And you can bet everything you've got that they're still recruiting people out there - probably fucking handing it out for free to little kids on the street by this point."

"What does someone want an army for?" asks Castiel. "Who's behind all this? Who could they possibly want to attack?"

"Our government?" grunts Bobby. "Another country? Some goddamn mystical creature we haven't even discovered yet? Who the hell knows, maybe it's just for entertainment."

"Thirty-two thousand," says Castiel again, because he just can't comprehend that many people dying for absolutely no reason, all at once, helpless to control it. And on the other side of it, thirty-two thousand people waking up from a trance with blood on their hands, horrified and terrified and probably facing years in jail because of it. He pictures the two women they met at the addiction clinic and wonders who they had to murder, simply for the mistakes they'd made in their pasts - mistakes they were trying to recover from.

Bobby leaves to go look up possible resources they could use, and they're alone again - but Castiel's never felt less inclined to deviant behavior. Instead, he sits down on the black bench and tries sipping his tea which has gone miserably cold.

"I would never let you hurt anyone," he tells Dean finally.

Dean just looks at him. "It's too late for that," he says at last, when Castiel has finally decided he's not going to respond. "I have hurt far too many people to count."

It is a long three days. They finally get Dean to consent to being locked up in a different position, and Castiel can't stop himself from kissing the dark red marks on his wrists when he unbuckles them. (He can tell it embarrasses Dean but he can also tell that Dean needs it too, how something ripples through him at the touch of Castiel's lips to the aggravated skin.) It's hard to get Dean to drink and even harder to get him to eat; a small part of Castiel thinks that he's trying to punish himself since no one else will, trying to inflict some weird form of masochism upon himself.

The worst part comes at the end of the third day when Charlie barges in. It's like she has a sixth sense of some sort - like she knows exactly where Dean is and she storms downstairs, ignoring all of Bobby's shouts, and pushes the metal door open, her eyes immediately latching onto where Dean sits, chains on his wrists and ankles.

"What the fuck," she seethes, eyes flashing, a storm, "is he doing chained up down here in a dungeon?"

"Charlie," says Dean, but she won't hear it.

"Get it off him," she rages. "No - I'll do it myself," and it looks like she's really about to rip the chains right off him before Castiel offers up the key. Ridiculously, Dean tries to protest, straining away from her and hugging the lock of the chain to his chest in an effort to keep it from her. It's only when she bites him hard on the wrist and then threatens to sit on him that he relinquishes.

"This is my choice," he tells her once the chains are off his ankles and wrists. "Don't blame them - it was _me_."

"You're such an arrogant asshole," she says, and shoves him. The way he lets her so easily, falling back against the wall with a resigned expression, makes something sink in Castiel's stomach. The chains may finally be off his physical body but they are still firmly wrapped around his inner being, keeping his guilt tied to him. "You're punishing yourself because of what you did, aren't you?" He doesn't say anything, just looks away, and the heat flares in Charlie's eyes again. She shoves him again, harder. "Look at me! You didn't _do anything_, Dean Winchester! Some psychopath got hold of you - anyone could see that it wasn't you, and I'm still alive, aren't I?"

"If Cas hadn't been there -"

"I can take care of myself," says Charlie in a hot voice, tossing her hair. There is a stallion in her, there is something fierce and protective and furious that this damage has been done in her absence. Castiel tries vainly to ignore the bruises of Dean's fingers on her pale neck. "You think you can take me? Let's go again. I'll kick your ass to the moon."

"Please stop blaming yourself, Dean," says Castiel in a quiet voice.

"Listen to them," says Bobby from the back of the room where he leans against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets. "It's time you stop this foolish business you're holding."

"It's not foolish," says Dean. There's something about him that looks hunted. "Did you tell Charlie what happened? Does she know?"

"Know what?" asks Charlie.

"That thirty-two thousand people died? That it's going to happen again, that it's part of something -" He freezes, coming up short, and everyone tenses along with him. "That's what Ezekiel meant. When he said that something worse was going on. This is it. They're going to do something even worse than this. Which means it's going to happen again, and I'm going to be affected."

Castiel says, "We don't know that. You're taking my medicine," but it feels like a lost cause. When Dean wants something, he gets it. And right now, he wants to punish himself as much as he possibly can.

"Dean, you're our best fighter. You're the lead on this fucking case. You can't just lock yourself in a dungeon and expect that to be okay," Charlie tells him.

"I'm not leaving this room," says Dean in his no-argument-will-sway-me voice. "I'm not taking any chances."

Desperately, because he can't think of anything else, Castiel says, "What about Sam?" and knows it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

Dean's frozen once more. "What did you say?"

"Sam. Your brother. Maybe -" he fidgets, not sure of how to keep going and then plows on through. "I think you should ask for his advice on this. I know you - talk to him sometimes."

The silence following is the heaviest Castiel's ever heard in his entire life.

"Does he know?" asks Charlie finally in a low voice. "He has to know, right?"

"Know what?" asks Castiel.

"You told him, didn't you?" demands Bobby and when Dean finally shakes his head, both Charlie and Bobby turn away almost in sync. Bobby turns back instantly. "You didn't tell him about your own brother? What kind of relationship are you playing at, boy?"

"I - I was getting around to -"

"_What are you talking about?_" grits out Castiel, looking wildly around the room as he waits for an answer. He is no longer the timid boy who couldn't even speak without tacking on 'sir' at the end of his sentences, and he's sick of feeling left behind. "What's wrong with the suggestion? I think he'd have a viable opinion on you locking yourself up for days on end -"

"Sam's dead," says Dean.

There's silence.

Dead silence. Sam's dead?

"What?" asks Castiel, and looks from Bobby to Charlie back to Dean but all of them look the exact same: hard and grim and battle-weary. "That can't be true. You - you talk to him. On the phone. I've heard you."

A look of intense pain and - shame. That's what it is. Shame and guilt and embarrassment all wrapped up in Dean Winchester's face like it's found a home there and isn't leaving any time soon. "I -" his voice drops almost to a whisper. "I pay the phone company. To keep his phone up. He died seven years ago, Cas."

"God damn it," growls Bobby. Stalking forward, he grabs hold of Charlie's shoulder and nearly drags her towards the exit.

Castiel can't look away from Dean. "I didn't know."

Gruffly: "Well now you do."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It never came up."

"Dean."

"I - fuck, Cas, I don't fucking know, okay?" he says. There's a tightness to his gaze, a slope to his shoulders - he is filled with self-hatred and Castiel can't bear to see it a second more.

"He would be ashamed of you right now," says Castiel in a low voice, unable to believe his own daring. He stands stiffly. "If he could see you, he would be ashamed."

"Oh yeah?" comes the immediate challenge, bitingly sharp. "And how the hell would you know? Clearly you know nothing about me or my family."

"What else aren't you telling me?" demands Castiel. Without thinking, he moves closer, crowding up into Dean's space. "Are you ever going to stop _hiding_ and be upfront with me? Don't I _deserve _that? Haven't I _earned _that from you yet?"

Dean backs up, up against the wall. "I can't just tell you everything, Cas, I'm not like that -"

"Then hear this," snarls Castiel, and he pushes Dean against the wall, shoving him and feeling a spike of something satisfied when Dean stumbles back. "If you don't start telling me the truth, I'll leave. I'm done. I'm not here to be lied to."

"The truth?" says Dean, looking astonished that Castiel would go this far. "What about when you _drugged_ me? Were you telling the fucking truth to me then?"

"I said I was sorry," says Castiel tightly. "At least I'm not in here sulking about it." Abruptly, all the anger leaves him and he just feels exhausted. "Dean, I'm worried about you, all right? There's only so much you can blame yourself. Yes. I drugged you. It's my fault. Now accept that and… and… Stop this. Please."

Just like that, Dean deflates; the air in the room seems to thaw slightly. "Come here."

Castiel's already close, but he moves closer, looking quietly up into Dean's face as he approaches. He can hear Dean's heart thumping away at too fast of a pace, and for a moment they just look at each other, evaluating each other.

"You know I love you," says Dean.

"I know," he confirms in a low voice.

When they kiss, it's soft and forgiving - but underneath it, too, is the same feeling of unease that Castiel's been carrying around for days now.

"I have things to tell you," says Dean when he pulls away.

"I know," says Cas again.

"You might not like me as much after you hear them."

He wants to say _Impossible_ but he's seen too much and heard too much and - yes, done too much to think that this is a world where love is completely unconditional. "I'm listening."

"No," says Dean, shaking his head. Already his eyes look resigned, expression guarded. "Not here."

"Then where?"

"Come with me."

* * *

**A/N: **Answers are finally coming next chapter!


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: **So, bad news first. I'm leaving tomorrow to go spend eight weeks in Orlando, Florida, for a camp, and there's no wifi in the hotel. So I'm not sure how well I'll be able to post the last few chapters. BUT the good news is that there's only five more left after this and I will do my darnedest to get them out to you! Just please be patient :) thanks. Now onto the chapter!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

It's nearing dusk when they reach their destination, but Dean doesn't need any sort of light to guide the way through the tombstones, despite only having been to this place once before. The ground is already thick with dew and the grass squeaks under their shoes, sinking under their weight as they move through the quiet resting place. Their destination is at the top of a hill and both of them are almost out of breath when they reach the top, something Dean is thankful of as it gives him a moment to turn his head and compose himself before finally looking back at his young partner.

"Joanna Beth Harvelle," reads Castiel off the flat slate gravestone. He looks up and meets Dean's guarded gaze. "Your partner?"

He purposely ignores the date on the tombstone that follows her birthdate – unable to bare the reminder – and turns around, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stares out over the darkened grounds. Up on this hill, it's almost like they're on an island, surrounded by a sea of graves. He wonders how many tears have touched this grass. Wonders morbidly what she looks like under the earth, if her flesh has started to peel away from her bones yet. "You know I was sent to this case as a form of a punishment."

The confirmation is hesitant: "Yes."

"What else do you know?"

He sees Castiel shift in his peripheral vision, staring at him with unease. "Not much. You were… on trial?"

"Yeah. But you don't know what I was on trial for?"

"No."

"Well, I guess I'm glad that if you have to hear it, at least you hear it from me. Anyone else would just fuck it up." He tilts his head, looking at Castiel from the side of his eye and gives him a sardonic little smile. "They'd make me out to be too good, you see."

Castiel frowns. "Dean –"

"No, please. You wanted the truth, I'm going to give you the truth. All of it. Even if it kills me." Which it very well might. It has been buried in his chest for so very long he knows he will have to dig it out - claw it out, and it will drag parts of him out along with it that haven't seen sunlight in a very long time.

He sees Castiel shift forward, almost as if he's reaching out to touch him – and then his arm falls back down to his side, fingers flexing empty. Dean waits a moment more to see if he'll do anything, say anything else, and when he doesn't, gives a brief nod.

"Jo and I became partners about three years ago – not too long when you're comparing it to old sons of bitches like Rufus and Bobby who have been partnered for decades, but we bonded quickly and broke open cases faster than anyone'd ever seen. They put us on cold cases to begin with, and after we took down three cases thirty years or older, they started to put us on some hot ones." His voice is flat, monotone, a recitation and nothing more – but in his mind, he can see it more vividly than anything else.

Jo is bright and just as eager as he is to prove herself, working herself night after night without sleep to get to the bottom of the case and then she'd just give herself a day or so of congratulation and move on to the next one, thirsty for the hunt. Always thirsty for more. And Dean – he'd been the exact same way, fresh and new and burning for the recognition his father never gave him. They were unstoppable.

"Maybe that was the problem. Too ambitious. Stretching too hard, too fast – greedy, you know? Not doing it for the right reasons, but because we wanted to be known as the best. Which we were, mind you. But –" his voice drops an octave, expression growing darker still, "Alastair was better."

"Alastair?" asks Castiel, sounding concerned.

The very name fills him with revulsion.

"He appeared out of nowhere. One day, he was nowhere on our radar, the next, he had been charged with multiple cases of kidnapping and at least seven accounts of murder. And – brutal murders, too, Cas, like. Total psychopathic shit. They found the bodies ripped apart at the seams and it was just the barest chances that we found it connected to him. He was so pristine… And he liked to pull shit like what we saw with the – the little kid and the other angels. Thought he was really creative or something. That's why I was so messed up after we found them like that. It…" he can't think for a moment. He'd turned into a monster that night, just like Alastair had wanted him too.

"Dean," says Castiel quietly. "You don't have to tell this if you don't want to. I understand."

But that's what he wants, he wants Cas to understand, and he can't – not really, until he hears the full story. "I have to do this," he tells him.

"Jo and I got assigned to head the case, and we put every waking thought into it - but he was always one step ahead of us. There was no way of predicting who his next victim would be. It was complete and utter madness. Started leaving us little notes everywhere…" His hands clench at the reminder. "Cas, fuck, I can't talk about this standing right here. Can we go somewhere?"

"Of course," comes the soft response. Down the hill they trek, now in almost complete darkness, moving until they come across a bench and there they both sit down, silent for a long moment as Dean gathers himself again.

"Jo was determined to get him. She wanted to be the one to make the arrest herself – but it was dragging out and we hadn't heard anything from him in weeks. I convinced her to have just one night off, because her birthday was coming up. 'Let's go get drinks,' I said. I had to work to get her to agree, but finally she did."

What would have happened if he hadn't done that? If he'd given in when she'd protested the first ten times? He tries not to think of it.

"We got totally wasted at some cheap bar. I barely remember anything from that night, except…" A half-bitter little laugh escapes him. "Jo kept shouting the lyrics to High School Musical. I don't even know when she watched it. Maybe Garth showed it to her, that's the sort of thing I could see them watching together."

He glances sideways at Castiel and gives a smile that's not funny in the slightest. "I'm getting to Sam, I swear. It just – a lot to work through."

Cas looks a lot like he wants to say something but all he does is nod again, and Dean is grateful for the silence.

"So… right. We were drunk. Drunk while Alastair was still alive and out there. What stupid assholes we were. Well – I was. It was my idea, I'm the one that forced her to do it. I guess you can see where this is going. We woke up… strapped down to these boards that were upright and facing each other."

He sees it then.

Dean wakes up first, groggy, head pounding, still feeling drugged – opening his eyelids is like opening a bank vault without the combination. Finally he manages it though, and at first he thinks he's still drunk or dreaming, that what he's seeing is some alternate reality from the truth. Jo's still knocked out across him – her head dangling at such an odd angle, he knows her neck will be killing her when she wakes up – and her arms are buckled down at her side, each ankle and her waist just as cleanly strapped. Trussed up, like a pig about to be slaughtered.

"Jo?" he croaks out, voice broken with overuse. Of course, that's when he realizes he's in the same situation, and slowly his brain is catching up, the truth of it all filtering in unwillingly. A slow sense of horror fills him.

He starts to thrash. "Jo? Jo? _JO, WAKE UP_."

And finally her head starts to lift and he almost wishes he'd let her sleep when her head comes up and she blinks blearily around – and he has to watch as she makes the same connection he had, has to see the dawning of terror in her familiar dark eyes.

"You're getting out of here," he says. "No matter what happens, you're _getting out of here_."

A moment later, he blinks back to the present. "It was all one big game to him. One huge fucking joke – and we were the punchline. I think he had this idea in his head that if he could get one of us to break, he'd win; all he had to do was get one crack from one of us, and he'd know he was able to corrupt anyone. He started on Jo, probably thinking she was the weaker of us two. But he didn't know."

"Dean…"

Now that he's started though, he can't stop.

"He started simple, by offering freedom to the first one who caved."

"Doesn't have to be creative," says Alastair, his voice silky smooth, his eyes a wicked gleam. "Doesn't even have to take long. Just take the knife," he's hovering over Jo, of course, and now he slides the flat side of the blade against her face, watching with delight as she flinches away, "and slit his throat. I know you know how to do it. Despite your pretty features, I know what's underneath."

"The only person who's dying here is you," she spits out, disgusted. "I'm going to rip your fucking throat out."

He leaves them alone for nearly an entire day after making his first offer, and when he comes back he brings water and a threat: someone is going to die in two days either way. If one of them made the kill, they walk free. Otherwise, both die.

"We were covered in our own piss and shit," says Dean in a flat voice. "He didn't take us off those fucking boards once, the entire time, and gave us water maybe twice the entire time we were strapped down. On the second day, he started making incisions."

It hurts like a bitch, but Dean was in the military for two years and had known pain intimately before then – plus, he's taller and has more body mass which makes the blood loss more manageable. Jo, on the other hand, is slight and slender. And she screams. Not the first time – the first time, she grits her teeth together hard and strains her neck up, veins showing in the pale skin. The second time, she gasps hard, chest heaving as blood soaks down her arm. The third time is when she loses her self-control – and it's loud and piercing, shooting straight into Dean's head.

"Sometimes I can still hear the echoes," he admits now in a low voice. "Like she's still in my head, constantly in pain. And it's my fault."

He doesn't know how he's going to get through this next part until suddenly Castiel scoots closer to him on the bench and reaches out, taking his hand and slotting their fingers together. It makes the tight ball of tension in Dean's chest loosen slightly and he nods his gratitude, still unable to look at him. Will he take his hand away when Dean gets to the end? He doesn't think he'll be able to bear it.

"Not your fault," says Castiel.

Dean closes his eyes and squeezes Castiel's hand and then breathes hard and continues. "He realized soon enough that she wasn't going to be the one to break. He changed tactics. He had to win, and he quickly figured out that the worst part for me was watching her get cut open."

It's agony. His head is spinning from dehydration and blood loss and lack of food - and he is forced to watch and listen as Alastair drags his bloody knife through Jo again and again. He doesn't rape her - sexual assault actually seems to be beneath him, of all things - which is good if only because Dean thinks he would literally go insane if he had to watch his best friend be raped by this monster.

Actually, he does go a little insane, regardless.

"I lost myself in there, Cas," he says now in a low voice. "I became a different person, watching him do those things to her. I couldn't even feel my own body, just this…. rage, that took over my whole body. So she's just hanging there…"

She finally can't scream any more - when she tries, all that emerges is a pitiful little rasping noise and it seems to annoy Alastair. But more than that, it strangles Dean. It takes what's left of his humanity after four straight days of this and asphyxiates it, effectively wiping it out. She is a bleeding mess, carved in ways he would have never imagined prior to this, and he doesn't even seem to know what he's doing when he opens his mouth and rasps, "Enough."

Alastair turns to look at him, eyebrows arched and mouth twisted in a little smile. "What did you say?"

"I said _enough_. Take her down."

"Dean, Dean, I told you how this worked -"

"Take _me _down. Let me take over."

It's a lie - of course it's a lie - and Dean plans on taking the first weapon Alastair gives him and stabbing it in his neck; normally, Jo would have seen this plan before he did, but lost in her own consuming pain, all she does it make a soft whimpering little noise. She would be crying if she wasn't so dehydrated, he knows, and it's almost worse this way - this broken choking noise as her body sags against the board.

In a hollow voice, he says, "She died thinking I was actually going to torture her. She died thinking that."

Her grave is at the top of the hill. Her body is closer to him than it has been since that mission.

He thinks maybe he's still insane. Just still in that room they put him in, staring at the walls and laughing hysterically. And Cas is just some sick twisted figment of his imagination and the case isn't real and angels aren't real.

Then Castiel's hand tightens around his and it has to be real. Because he would never in a million years be able to imagine a person like Castiel into existence, even if he was insane.

"I don't know what he wanted from me. Did he want an apprentice? Did he just like the idea of corrupting someone? Whatever it was, he let me off the board without any hesitation. And I picked up the knife he held out - it was a fucking butcher knife, like what the _fuck_ - and I stared down at it. And it was covered in J-Jo's -" he shakes his head and can't get it out. Castiel's hand is a burning hot reminder of where he is.

But it's not good enough. He can see it - Jo, hair matted to her neck and face covered in blood. Eyes rolling wildly, like an animal that knows its about to go under and doesn't know what to do about it. She was still struggling to get loose but there were deep gashes in her stomach and arms - in her thighs, everywhere. Her clothes are ribbons, shreds. She's dying, Dean can see that, and -

"And instead of saving her, I turned and rammed that goddamn knife right into his stomach. I couldn't see or think or do anything but push him back until he was in my spot - and I strapped him in, listening to him moan the entire time. And when he was strapped in, I started working. I became exactly what he wanted me to be, with Jo at my back watching. Dying."

He deserves to die. He wishes he had die then, with her in that room.

Except then he would never have met Castiel, never seen the beauty and innocence of a person who should be as fucked as Dean was in that room but somehow isn't.

"Killing him was the best thing I ever did. But while I carved my way through his skin - Jo was dying. I forgot all about her." Dean blinks hard, and then grits his teeth. There's something burning in his eyes and he thinks he might throw up. "She died there behind me while I listened to him scream. She probably thought I was just as much of a monster as he was."

"Dean," says Castiel softly.

He still can't look at him.

"The rest moved quickly. They found us, with me still attacking this corpse over and over again and Jo hanging up behind me, and she was buried and so was I. When I resurfaced - what felt like years later - I was put on trial."

"_Dean_."

"I know you think it's insane - Bobby went fucking nuts when they announced it - but it was misconduct; I deserved it. Torturing? I mean." He stares off distantly. "There's killing in self-defense and then there's outright satanism. So yeah, trial. Lasted for months, and then I got off. I still think Charlie had something to do with it, but she denies it. So after that, I had no partner, and absolutely no one - including myself - wanted me to keep working in the OC Unit and because I already knew about the Supernatural Division, that's where they put me. Unwillingly, I guess. It was their form of punishment."

"You already knew about the SD?" asks Castiel, surprise lingering in his voice. But he's still gripping Dean's hand and that's all that matters, really. "Does… that involve Sam?"

Of course he would be able to guess. Castiel always had been smarter than Dean gave him credit for. "Yeah. Yeah, it does."

Softly, "You really don't have to tell me. You've said enough."

"No, I need to. This will be shorter, I promise."

But he can't start right away - and so for a moment they sit there in silence, soaking in the fact that they are both together and alive and miraculously safe. That Alastair is no longer a threat.

"So seven years ago." No, that's not right. "Nine years ago. That's where it starts. My brother went off to Stanford because he is - was - a fucking genius. Going to be a lawyer. He was," Dean shakes his head. "Brilliant, he was brilliant. He should have stayed alive. Could have helped so many people." _Me, _he thinks, _he could have helped me._

"What happened?" Castiel prompts gently.

"He met a girl. It's always a girl, isn't it? Or - well," and now Dean can't help glancing quickly at Castiel, meeting his quiet intense eyes through the darkness and blushing slightly before looking straight again. "Anyway. Her name was Ruby and she was a drug addict, but more importantly, she was a drug herself. And Sam fell in love with her, hard. At first they just did minor stuff together - drink, smoke pot, whatever. But then it started getting harder stuff and finally she introduced him to Grace."

He feels Castiel tense beside him, just barely.

"I was just about to graduate from college myself, working a full shift as a mechanic in the evenings and nearly killing myself over it, and it wasn't until I graduated that I realized just how deep he was in. And by then." He shakes his head. "It was too late. He was gone, completely hooked. I honestly don't know whether he was more addicted to Ruby or Grace. Then she started dealing. It got worse. We had the biggest fucking fight I've ever had and by that time I was already starting to train for the FBI; I told him if he didn't straighten up, I'd turn him in."

"I can't imagine," Cas murmurs.

"Lot of screaming. Lot of cursing. I still hadn't told Dad - but I told him I'd give him a week to make his decision and then first I'd tell Dad and then the FBI." He fumbles for a moment and then brings out a creased picture out of his wallet, smoothing it out. It's barely visible in the dark light. "I keep it, of both of them, to remind me what happened. To never forget. That fight rings in my head all the damn time."

It only occurs to him now that this ultimatum feels just a bit like the one Alastair gave. _Become who I want you to be, or I'll make you._

"He didn't take it well," says Castiel. It's not a question, but Dean nods anyway.

"He went off with Ruby. He told her what I was going to do, and she riled him up - told him that I'd always been waiting to betray him or something, that I was just waiting for the right moment. They went off together and took more Grace than ever. And he -" God, it still hurts even after all these fucking years. "He died, of course, the idiot. The stupid goddamn idiot. And she lived. Dad died six months later in the car wreck."

And the rest of it is a blur in Dean's memory, one of the darkest periods in his memory. He faintly tells Castiel of the next stages of his life: of officially becoming a Special Agent; of joining the Drug Enforcement Department to track down Ruby and incarcerate her for life; of having to listen to her snide version of events and smile a glittering smile as Sam's name left her lips. He doesn't tell Cas about the endless nights and the alcoholism and the suicidal thoughts that bloomed again and again during that period.

"And while I was investigating her, I accidentally found out about the true origins of Grace. So after the cat was out of the bag, they offered me a position with the SD, and I turned them down. Finding Ruby was the only reason I ever got into the drug department and once that was done, I was done. I went straight into Organized Crime, and then you know the rest. Jo. Alastair. Trial. To the SD." A pause. "You."

It's quiet for a moment and in the silence, Dean grows tense. Why isn't he saying anything? Is he - does he want to pull back, now that he knows?

Dean knows he can't blame him, but that doesn't quite take away the sting.

"So why didn't you tell me?"

"Because - because -" He struggles for a moment and then breathes out hard. "Because it was nice, someone not knowing. Sam's death defined my life for a very long time, and then Jo's death was so recent - it was nice not having someone look at me with pity. _Oh, what a hard life he's had._ Instead you just saw me. It was selfish."

"Not selfish," says Castiel softly.

Dean finally looks at him. Really studies him, scrutinizes him. "You're not right for me," he finally says.

And that, of all things, makes Castiel finally pull away, looking like he's been slapped.

"No -" says Dean, and reaches out, gripping his wrist and tugging it back towards him. He pulls Castiel's hand in between his and looks down at it, staring at the long thin fingers, the neatly trimmed nails. "No, you're not right at all. Too young, too _good_. You're so much more than me, Cas, and you have so much more you could do with your life than waste it on an old man."

He tries to look up, tries to smile, fails at both.

Castiel's hand flexes against his. It is both a thing of a beauty and a thing of danger and he loves it. Funny how often those two things seem to coincide.

"You shouldn't have lied to me," says Castiel in that low tenor of his. Dean nods jerkily, but Castiel's not finished. "You shouldn't have lied, but I shouldn't have drugged you with my Grace. And you shouldn't have given me those pills. Maybe we shouldn't even be together. There are a lot of things both of us have done wrong - but I would do them all again if it meant being here in this moment with you."

They stare at each other in the haze of the rising moon, not speaking, not moving, just watching each other. It seems impossible to Dean that he has somehow managed to go 95 percent of his life without this beautiful, wonderful creature.

He feels emptier without his secrets in his chest - but he feels lighter too, as though speaking it out loud for almost the first time in full completion has lifted at least one weight off him.

He's flawed, he knows that. He holds things too tightly to his chest and has trouble committing and trusting; he's stubborn and angry and can only focus on one thing at a time.

But he also loves this person with everything he has in him.

It's not perfect, but it's good enough for Dean Winchester, and hopefully it'll be enough for Castiel as well.


End file.
